Camerado
by MillieJoan
Summary: Hermione seeks knowledge from a reluctant Snape in order to help the War effort. What she receives is more than either of them expected. Set beginning in Hermione's sixth year, continuing into a slightly AU post-DH era.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: None of it is mine, it all belongs to JKR! (particularly any lines recognizable from HBP and DH, which I've tried to italicize).

* * *

He couldn't breathe, couldn't think; the snake was gone-he had felt the cold and pain as it released its grip on him, heard the solid slide of it against the shack's rough floor-but in its place was agony at his neck, radiating down his shoulder and arm and chest. He pressed one palm flat against his neck, or tried to; from the blood pumping eagerly through his fingers, he knew that his muscles were already weakened. His other hand scrabbled blindly against the dirty floor as wave after wave of pain drew over him.

Dimly, Severus was aware that he had failed in the end, failed spectacularly when he was so close. Potter, he thought, and then nothing, another wave of pain driving even his failures away from him.

There was an unpleasant thudding and shuffling sound, and he opened his eyes, the fingers of his right hand clenching against the floorboards. Had he the strength, he would have shouted in surprise; looming above him, as if conjured by his half-formed thoughts, was Potter, dirty, untidy, bewildered-looking as ever. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but Snape forestalled him, his sluggish brain catching on-he still had a chance!-and with a supreme effort that he would have thought himself incapable of only seconds before, he reached up and grabbed Potter by the front of his robes.

Ignoring the boy's startled expression, Severus drew in a deep breath, feeling as though shards of glass were tearing through the tendons of his neck, and without conscious thought, sought to expel the memories he needed Potter to see. He had never attempted this without a wand before, and it was with vague alarm that he realized the slimy substance creeping from his ears, nose and mouth were his memories, and he had no way to hold them.

Again, as if conjured, a vial appeared and a thin, whiplike wand, which neatly transfered the memories from his face. He glanced up to see Hermione Granger, her face a mask of horror, tears rolling unchecked down her cheeks. For a moment his gaze felt caught on her; their eyes locked, his intense, hers stricken. Then he looked back at Potter, feeling himself weakening, his mind growing foggy, the pain too much.

_"Look at me,"_ he breathed, and Potter did.

* * *

Snape dropped back to the floor with a dull thud, his eyes rolling up, and the three friends remained motionless and silent for several beats, staring at the body of their most reviled professor.

Hermione clutched the conjured vial close to her chest; in the other, she gripped her wand so tightly that her knuckles ached. She was dimly aware that she could hear Snape's rattling breath growing shallower and shallower, and Harry's harsh breathing from beside her. Ron was backed up against the shack's wall, his face an ugly green, his eyes fixed on Snape's face in horrified fascination.

When Snape's breathing seemed to stop altogether, Harry was the first to react.

"Right," he said, still staring at their professor's body. He licked his lips. "Hermione-pass that jar here."

Hermione swallowed and gave the vial to Harry. He held it up to the dim light, frowning.

"I don't know. . . It's not. . . Did he mean these for me?"

"I think so, Harry," she said. She was shaking, she realized. "I don't know why else he'd have-grabbed you like that."

"Okay." Harry nodded and adjusted his grip on his wand. "We've got to get back to the castle then. I should have time to use Dumbledore's pensieve before. . ." He trailed off.

Ron spoke up for the first time since they had entered the shack. "Are you mental?" he demanded. "This isn't the time-!"

Harry shook his head, already moving toward the door. "I have to," he said. "They might be important." And then he was gone, his running footsteps echoing down the passageway.

Ron pressed his lips together and looked from the passage to Hermione and back again, carefully avoiding Snape's body. "Come on," he said. "We can't leave him alone."

"I-I'll be along." Hermione twisted her fingers in the strings of her magically enlarged bag.

"What?"

"I've got to. . . take a minute." She made a shooing motion, her heart drumming so quickly that it was almost painful. "Please, go on, I'll catch up."

Ron looked at her for a moment, his expression, for once, unreadable, then nodded. "Be careful when you come after us," he said, then disappeared down the passage.

Hermione stared after her friend's retreating form for a moment before turning decisively and kneeling beside Snape. She bent over him, swallowing hard against the metallic stench of blood, and looked down at his face, her body completely still. Even in death, his facial muscles were tense. Even death couldn't erase the deep lines his tension cut beside his mouth and his absurd nose and between his heavy brows. Even death. . .

With a start, Hermione realized that she could hear someone breathing, just barely, and it wasn't her.

"Oh God," she whispered, momentarily frozen. Her eyes flew to the wound in Snape's neck; garishly ugly, it still oozed blood steadily.

"Bugger!" she muttered, and began rummaging through her bag. How could she have missed such as obvious sign of life? Her fingers fumbled past shrunken textbooks and changes of clothing until they curled around a small, tightly-stoppered glass beaker, a third full of a thick red liquid.

Scooting closer to her former professor, Hermione lifted his head gently, tipping it back to rest against her thighs. She pried his lips apart with trembling fingers, then yanked the stopper from the beaker with her teeth and tipped the entire contents into his mouth.

Dropping the beaker on the floor, she forced Snape's jaw shut and began massaging his throat to force him to swallow. The short dark stubble that covered his cheeks and jaw was rough against her fingers, and a bit of the blood replenishing potion had managed to dribble from the corners of his mouth before she closed it and now oozed stickily over her knuckles, but Hermione did not stop massaging until he had swallowed the rest.

Dropping her hands, she nearly moved to grab her bag again before shaking her head roughly at herself, wasting precious seconds doing things the Muggle way. Pointing her wand at the bag, she said, "Accio bezoar!", and reached up at the last second to catch the small stone as it hurtled toward her.

Wasting no more time, she shoved her wand back into her sleeve, forced Snape's mouth open once more, and shoved the bezoar as far down his throat as she could.

Nothing happened. Hermione was unsure what she had expected-nothing in particular, most likely, as she had been acting mostly on instinct, without time to formulate a hypothesis. She hadn't been present when Harry saved Ron with a bezoar last year, and at the time she hadn't thought to ask her overwrought friends what, specifically and in the proper sequence, the effects of the bezoar had been as it counteracted the poisoned mead. Please, and thank you.

As it was, Snape remained unconscious, the lines of his face still tight, whether from pain or something else she was uncertain. The wound Nagini had inflicted was still bleeding. Hermione stared at it for a moment, feeling the same odd, contrasting pulls of revulsion and curiosity that drew Muggles to slow down and stare at auto accidents, then pressed her lips together and pulled out her wand again, pressing the tip against Snape's neck. A hastily muttered healing spell and the wound had sealed itself, albeit clumsily. She gazed at the red, gnarled-looking twist of scar tissue regretfully for a moment. She had never learned healing properly; what little she did know was amateurish at best and gleaned entirely from books. She was pretty sure that particular spell was intended for lesser injuries-the cuts and scrapes that children brought home routinely-but at least there was no more blood. A scar, she told herself, was a small price to pay for Snape's life. If he did live.

She moved abruptly, shifting his head from her lap, gently, and laying it on the rough floor, which looked extremely uncomfortable. Thinking quickly, she transfigured the beaker she had discarded into a pillow, easing it under his head. Her fingers tangled briefly in his hair, which was limp and greasy as ever, and she extricated herself as gently as she could before finally standing and gazing critically at him for a moment.

He was still breathing. It would have to be enough.

On impulse she bent, reached down, and touched his shoulder with the tips of her fingers. "Please live," she whispered, trailing her fingers up over his blood-stiffened collar, bypassing the newly healed scar to brush his cheek before drawing back once more.

Ignoring the hard lump that had formed in her throat, Hermione turned and, without looking back, raced down the tunnel after her friends, toward the battle she knew was coming.

* * *

A/N: Rating is for later chapters.


	2. Henceforth I ask not good fortune

Disclaimer: Not mine, I'm just lucky enough to play here.

_Two years earlier_

Hermione Granger always faced the beginning of a new term with a mixture of anticipation and anxiety. Anticipation, obviously, as she sat with her friends on the Hogwarts Express and mentally reviewed the classes she had signed up for. Anxiety, anticipation's natural successor, wasn't far behind, as she managed to convince herself that this was the term that she would not have adequately prepared for the first day's lessons. Had she truly internalized that chapter about the six principles of the transfiguration of sentient v. non-sentient creatures? And was she really prepared for Advanced Potions; the last three chapters of the book looked complicated even for her. And if she wasn't prepared, then the decision she had come to in the last few days of the summer holiday was going to be even more difficult to stick to. Staring out the train window at the landscape whizzing by, Hermione saw instead the perpetual scowl on her Potion Master's sallow face, and felt her stomach lurch unpleasantly.

It wasn't that she had never broken the rules before; she had done so countless times since she started at Hogwarts, once she, Harry, and Ron became friends. Despite this, however, she had never managed to overcome her natural instinct to respect her elders--particularly her professors, who imparted knowledge to her on a daily basis--and her decision would imply not only that the most notoriously unpleasant professor at Hogwarts had made a bad call, but that she, a mere student, could do better than he had.

He would have her in detention until the end of term, if he bothered her hear her out at all. The chance that he would agree with her assessment of the state of things was slim indeed.

. . . . .

Severus Snape looked forward to the start of a new term with even less enthusiasm than most of his students. This year, however, _should_ have been at least marginally better than previous ones--Dumbledore had finally granted him the Defense Against the Dark Arts post that he had coveted since he was a student here himself. Were it not for the fact that the post was a blatant attempt by the Headmaster to assuage his own guilt, Snape might have been genuinely excited as he went over his lesson plans for the following day. As it was, he felt as though there was something pressing, constantly, against his chest, making it difficult for his lungs to draw in enough oxygen.

Shuffling tomorrow's lesson plans into a wobbly pile to one side of his desk, Severus glanced at the clock, his brows crashing together when he realized it was nearly time for the Sorting to begin. He stood, robes flapping impressively behind him, and made his way to the door of his office--his new office, adjacent to the Defense classroom. His fingertips had barely brushed the knob, however, when he heard a scratching at the window. Turning, he saw an unfamiliar owl hovering outside the classroom, a scroll tied to its leg.

With a wave of his wand, the window opened; the owl flew in, perching on the back of one of the student chairs, and nipped at his sleeve, clearly asking for a treat.

"I haven't got anything for you," Severus muttered, reaching for the scroll. The owl gave an injured hoot before flying away; another wand-wave, and the window shut and latched behind it.

The outside of the scroll said merely, "Professor Snape, Potions Master, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." Severus smirked for a moment, before frowning at the handwriting--it seemed familiar, but clearly whoever had sent the scroll was not privy to his new appointment. Not Lucius then, or anyone else on the Board of Governors.

Impatiently, he tore the wax seal.

_Dear Professor Snape,_

_Forgive me for disturbing you before term has begun, Sir, but I have something important to speak to you about, and I hoped that we could set up an appointment. I would have waited until I saw you at school, but I don't have Potions until Thursday afternoon, and this cannot wait._

_Please let me know when your earliest available appointment is. I hope you have had a pleasant holiday._

_Sincerely,_

_Hermione Granger_

Severus read the letter over twice, puzzled, before scowling and crumpling it in his fist. Something to do with Potter, no doubt. Well, whatever the irrepressible Miss Granger wanted, it would have to wait until after the feast. He stuffed the parchment into one of his robe's deep pockets, as a reminder to deal with it later, before yanking open the door and striding from the room toward the Great Hall.

. . . . .

Ron poked Hermione in the ribs, simultaneously shoveling a spoonful of sticky toffee pudding into his mouth. "Oy," he mumbled around the food, "what d'you think _he's_ so pleased about?"

He nodded significantly toward the Head Table. Professor Dumbledore was chatting with Professor Slughorn, whose plate was filled nearly to overflowing with the house elves' savory cooking. Most of the other teachers were tucking into their desserts, but Professor Snape, near the end of the table, was toying with his goblet, rolling the stem of it between his fingers, a sort of half-smirk on his face.

As though feeling eyes on him, Snape looked up abruptly, scanning the Hall. His eyes found the Gryffindor table before Hermione could turn away; he gave her a long, measuring look before suddenly picking up his goblet and taking a long sip. He didn't glance back in her direction.

Hermione turned back to Ron. "I don't know," she said speculatively. It was unlikely that her correspondence would cause any sort of positive reaction from the taciturn man. She took a sip of pumpkin juice. "I don't think I've ever seen him smile and had it mean anything good before, though."

Ron nodded. "Yeah. . . Can't be a good sign," he decided.

Harry turned away from a conversation about Quidditch with Seamus Finnigan. "What's not a good sign?" he asked.

"Shnape shmilin'," Ron said, his mouth still full of pudding.

Harry glanced sharply at the Head Table, but Snape had once again donned his usual emotionless expression. Harry shrugged. "If the Git was smiling, that can't mean anything good for us," he agreed.

Hermione smiled weakly, smashing her pie with her fork, feeling as nervous as she had on the train. Snape must have received her owl by now; probably that was why he was looking at her so speculatively. Her stomach flip-flopped, and she set down her fork abruptly, just as Professor Dumbledore stood, raising his arms for silence. As he did so, their plates, goblets, and serving platters vanished, leaving Ron and several other boys yelping indignantly.

"Just a few start-of-term introductions before the prefects take you up to bed," he said, smiling. He gestured at the corpulent man to his right. "This," he said, "is Professor Horace Slughorn--" a dramatic pause-- "your new Potions professor."

The effect was immediate, the student body erupting in a buzz of murmuring. Hermione, Ron and Harry stared at each other, shocked.

"Potions! I thought you said Slughorn was the new Defense teacher!" Ron hissed at Harry.

"I thought he was," Harry said defensively. "But--I guess--maybe Dumbledore never said that specifically? Maybe I just assumed. . ."

"It'd make sense," Hermione said. "After all, that was the only vacant position, as far as we knew. . ."

As one, the three friends turned once again to look at the head table, three pairs of eyes seeking out the dark form of their--now previous--Potions master. Snape had that faint smirk on his face again; he was watching Dumbledore, who, also, was clearly enjoying the sensation his words had caused, smiling benevolently over the muttering student body. As they watched, Snape glanced at the Slytherin table, where several students, Draco Malfoy included, were making exaggerated gestures, trying to get their Head of House's attention. He raised a sardonic eyebrow, nodding slightly, the smirk widening just faintly as if in answer to an unvoiced question. Malfoy smirked in return, while Pansy Parkinson, less reserved, let out a whoop of excitement.

Apparently taking the noise as his cue to continue, Dumbledore raised his arms for silence once more. His sleeves fell away from his wrists, exposing his blackened left hand, causing another round of buzzing, as it had earlier in the evening. Ignoring this, the Headmaster cleared his throat.

"Please join me in a round of applause for our new staff member, then." Gesturing with his good hand, Dumbledore smiled at Professor Slughorn as a wave of polite clapping broke out over the Hall.

Hermione moved her hands automatically, a slight frown creasing her brow, her eyes darting between Professors Snape and Slughorn as realization dawned--and with realization, panic. If Professor Slughorn was the new Potions teacher, and Professor Snape was still at the school, and the Defense job was still unfilled. . .

"I'm going to be sick," she muttered. Thankfully no one at the Gryffindor table heard her above the applause.

Again, Dumbledore held up an imperious hand. "Quiet, quiet. Now, those of you who are returning students know that Professor Snape previously held the position of Potions Master. He will now be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts, and I'm sure that you could not have a more--"

_"No!"_ Harry shouted, standing so abruptly that he had to catch the edge of the table for balance. Heads swiveled to stare at the Gryffindor table.

Dumbledore looked at Harry with calm blue eyes, clearly unruffled. "--As I was saying, I am certain that you could not ask for a more able instructor in this most important subject." His eyes never left Harry's as he spoke.

Hermione swallowed as tentative applause broke out among the students, growing genuinely enthusiastic from the Slytherin table. Snape acknowledged them with a lazy wave of his hand. She looked at Harry, his face red with suppressed rage.

_"Well, there's one good thing," he said savagely. "Snape'll be gone by the end of the year."_

_"What do you mean?" asked Ron._

_"The job's jinxed. No one's lasted more than a year. . . . Quirrell actually died doing it. . . . Personally, I'm going to keep my fingers crossed for another death."_

_"Harry!"_ Hermione said reproachfully, startled by the pure venom of his words. Part of her couldn't blame her friend for his animosity toward their teacher, who had been tormenting Harry since the first day they stepped into his dungeon classroom. Another part was chilled by the pure hatred with which he stared at Snape. Sirius's death had hit him hard, of course; her chest ached when she thought of how happy Harry had been at the end of their third year to learn that he still had the chance to have a loving family. Now he blamed Snape for stealing that chance from him. She swallowed. Snape had just been playing his part--too well, as it turned out. Sirius's death couldn't be blamed on him; it was the result of Voldemort's manipulation of Harry's mind, Sirius's own recklessness, and Harry's hard-headed refusal to listen to anyone except himself. Not that she would ever tell him that.

"Come on," she said, tugging at her friend's sleeve. Ron stood as well. "Ron and I have to get the firsties up to the tower; we can talk when we're done, ok?"

Harry shook his head. "There's nothing to talk about," he muttered, and shoved his way through a group of gossiping third-year girls, and out of the Great Hall.

Ron and Hermione exchanged a worried glance, then started gathering up the newest Gryffindors.

"Right!" Ron shouted. "First years, this way!"

As they made their way up to Gryffindor Tower, Hermione allowed herself to acknowledge that she blamed herself for Sirius's death as well. She had all but ignored the niggling feeling that something was just plain wrong about Harry's visions; she hadn't tried nearly hard enough to stop him. Well, that was going to change. Harry was spiraling downwards into anger and despair, and she wasn't going to let him or anyone else get hurt as a result again.

. . . . .

The owl flew into the tower room Hermione shared with Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil just as the three girls were settling down to bed. Recognizing one of the school owls, Hermione tore the scroll from its leg, absently offering it a piece of pudding left over from dinner, her heart hammering madly.

_Miss Granger,_

_Be in my office no later than six-thirty tomorrow morning. I have much to do preparing for the day's lessons, so you will have five minutes to speak to me. Be warned that if you are wasting my time, you'll be in detention faster than you can say "Expelliarmus."_

_~SS_

Hermione took a deep breath, allowing her heart a few seconds to settle down. At least he was agreeing to meet with her at all. She glanced at the clock. It was already past one o'clock; she'd better stop worrying if she was going to get any sleep at all tonight.

_Easier said than done_, she thought ruefully, as she lay in bed listening to Lavender's soft snores and staring up at the canopy. Her mind a tangle of emotions, she tried to remember what Harry had told her about his Occlumency lessons last year.

_Quiet my mind_, she thought. _Still thoughts, dampen emotions. . . But how?_

She finally settled on picturing her parents' backyard, with its wooden bench and small cobbled patio, surrounded by her father's rose bushes. She imagined it as it had been when she left them at the end of summer, early evening light dappling the weathered stones, dancing on the full, open heads of the peach-colored roses that clustered by the back door. Other thoughts struggled to intrude, but Hermione pushed them firmly back, replacing each worry, each fear, each insecurity with a different view of the garden until she finally succumbed to sleep.

. . . . .

A few hours later found Hermione hurrying through the deserted school hallways toward the dungeons, her damp hair braided and bouncing against her back as she walked. She had showered and gotten dressed as quickly as possible, and was looking forward to a cup of strong tea at breakfast. On good days, she needed the caffeine to get her moving; fewer than five hours of sleep was not, in her opinion, the start of a good day.

Few students were up at this hour, as breakfast did not begin until seven-thirty, but she passed Professor Flitwick and the Grey Lady, deep in an animated discussion near the school's entryway. The tiny Charms professor gave a start of surprise when he saw her, but the Grey Lady merely turned her head imperiously, glanced at Hermione, and continued talking.

Nodding a quick greeting to her professor and to the Ravenclaw ghost, Hermione hurried down the stairs, noting that even though it was only the beginning of September, the castle dungeons were already cold. The door to the Potions classroom was open, and she stepped inside, intending to cross to the office door, when she noticed something written in precise, curling, almost feminine handwriting on the chalkboard. The writing was so unlike Professor Snape's dark, oddly elegant scrawl that she paused to look at it.

_Strengthening Solution, _it said_. Step one: slice shrivelfigs in precise, two-inch-long sections._

Frowning, Hermione stared at the chalkboard for the space of several heartbeats, knowing that something wasn't making sense, but her sleep-deprived mind refusing to immediately understand the implications of that unfamiliar script. Then, abruptly, it hit her, and her heart felt as though it had stopped beating entirely.

"_Shit_," she whispered, then whirled around and began to race back the way she had come. Her shoes pounded loudly on the stone floor; she took the stairs two at a time, nearly tripping as she did so--her legs weren't particularly long, after all--rounded a corner, and ran straight through the Grey Lady, who was still talking animatedly with Professor Flitwick.

The Grey Lady huffed slightly in surprise, and Flitwick held up both hands. "Miss Granger!" he squeaked. "What on earth are you doing?"

Hermione skidded slightly, stopping her forward momentum with one hand braced against one of the wide columns that dotted the entryway. "Sorry, Professor," she wheezed. "I'm late--for an appointment--with--" she breathed in as deeply as she could, trying to get her breath back -- "Professor--Snape."

The Charms professor raised his fluffy white eyebrows. "Five points from Gryffindor for running in the hallways," he said, and Hermione sighed inwardly. "And five more for running again."

She stared at him for a moment, before he smiled widely and made a shooing motion with his hands. "Go!" he said, and she did.

. . . . .

Severus was sitting at his desk, marking passages in a textbook, when there was a knock on his office door. Glancing at the hourglass on his desk, his lip curled unpleasantly.

"Enter," he barked, not bothering to look up when the door opened and Hermione Granger stepped inside.

"I'm so sorry I'm late, Professor," she panted. He glanced up to see her standing only a few steps away from the doorway, one hand pressed against her chest as she tried to catch her breath. "I--well--" She blushed, just faintly, looking awkward and embarrassed. Snape put his quill aside, watching her with interest, like a great black dog scenting its prey's weakness.

"Do go on, Miss Granger," he drawled. "But be aware that as you are late, you have only two minutes to speak to me instead of five."

Her eyes widened. "I--yes, Sir." She paused, clearly trying to arrange her face into a neutral expression, a nearly impossible task for someone whose thoughts and emotions played across her features as transparently as hers did.

"I wanted to ask for. . . a favor, Sir." Her voice shook only slightly, and to her credit, she looked him in the eye.

"Indeed?"

"Yes. I--I wanted--I hoped you would give me Occlumency lessons," she blurted.

Severus froze.

"Why," he began, speaking carefully, his voice a dangerous rumble, "would you think me inclined to do you any favors at all, much less one demanding so much time and energy on my part, and whose consequences could potentially be so. . . unpleasant?"

She lifted her chin stubbornly. "Because I think it necessary, Sir."

He raised an eyebrow, a trick he had perfected as a youth. Silence, he had learned, was inclined to make people speak more in order to fill it, resulting in more information than if he endlessly asked the questions he wanted answers to.

She didn't disappoint him. "It's Harry, Professor. I've been thinking about this all summer; I know he didn't do well in his lessons with you--" she must have noticed the furious expression growing on Snape's face, because she hurried on, "not because of anything you did, of course, but because he didn't try enough. I know he didn't, I saw him myself. But--he needs to learn, Sir. The. . . the link, whatever it is, between him and Vol--" Again, she saw his face darken,. "Ah. . . You-Know-Who, is getting stronger. And I think he might be more likely to do well if he's shown how by a. . . by a friend."

_It all comes back to fucking Potter_, Severus thought bitterly.

"The Dark Lord is no one's friend, Miss Granger. If Potter could not keep me out, there is no reason to think he could ever be disciplined enough to construct the shields necessary to keep _him_ out."

"Yes, but, Harry learns best when he's not being shouted at," she said earnestly.

A beat.

"Ten points from Gryffindor, for talking back to a teacher," he said smoothly.

She blanched. "Er--"

Severus glared at her for a moment, feeling a headache beginning between his eyes. He wondered, with a sudden flare of panic, how much Potter had told her about their lessons.

The girl had gone silent, obviously still disconcerted by her slip-up. She was staring at his desk, a slight frown creasing her brow. Severus had no doubt that, unlike most of the other students he dealt with, she was not formulating an apology for her rudeness; rather, she was mounting another assault. He had dealt with her for going on six years in his classes; if she thought she was right, she would try to out-logic the Dark Lord himself, the irritating chit.

The thought gave Severus pause. She was right, curse her; breaking into Potter's mind would be child's play for the Dark Lord. The boy had no discipline, no control whatsoever over his emotions. Add to that the disturbing flashes of insight into the Dark Lord's thoughts and feelings, which the Dark Lord had already exploited once, and there was a good chance that the boy's stubborn refusal to close his mind would lead to the Order's destruction. Black had already died as a result of that link. He could not, _would_ not, try to teach Potter again; he could not face those damned green eyes, knowing that they had seen his worst humiliations. . . and Dumbledore was in no condition to take on anything more right now.

Placing both hands flat on the desk, Severus levered himself upright, waiting until Miss Granger raised her eyes to his. He looked at her speculatively for a moment. Her damp hair was already coming out of its braid in untidy curls; her hands clenched together in front of her waist so tightly they were turning white. But her chin was tilted up, and she was meeting his eyes, nervous but not frightened. Self-assured, as if she knew that she could master anything he tried to teach her. Which she probably could, rot her.

"Come Miss Granger," he said abruptly, wheeling about so fast from behind the desk that the edges of his heavy robes knocked against her, causing her to stumble. "We are going to see the Headmaster."

A/N: The title of the story, as well as the chapter titles, come from "Song of the Open Road," by Walt Whitman.


	3. I whimper no more

Disclaimer: Not mine, I'm just lucky enough to play here.

Hermione trailed Snape down the hallway, feeling a bit like a first-year again as she tried to match his long stride with her significantly shorter legs. He didn't look at her, didn't check behind him to make sure she was following. Not that she would dare to _not_ follow him, she thought ruefully.

His face, in his office, had gone through a number of transformations, from irritated to furious to. . . thoughtful? Now his face was expressionless, as usual, his manner as intimidating; the few students who were on their way down to the Great Hall early scampered out of his way.

"Five points from Ravenclaw, Mr. Tillen, for jumping in the halls," he snapped at a second-year boy who had quite literally leapt out of the way of the dark-robed man bearing down upon him.

They reached the stone gargoyle who guarded the entrance to the Headmaster's office. Snape stopped short so quickly that Hermione, who had scurried to keep close to him once the office door was in sight, bumped into his back.

"Oof!" She steadied herself with her palms flat against the scratchy wool of his robes, then snatched her hands back as if the contact had burned them. Snape was looking at her over his shoulder with an unreadable expression.

"Do be more careful," he said, then turned back to the stone gargoyle without waiting for an apology and snapped, "Cadbury!"

Blinking in surprise--Dumbledore knew of and liked Muggle sweets as well?--Hermione made to follow him up the curving stone staircase, but he forestalled her with a wave of his hand.

"Wait here, Miss Granger. I must speak with the Headmaster privately." His sallow face was drawn up in the fiercely delineated lines of a scowl. "Stay where you are, and do not speak to anyone about this matter until I return, do you understand?"

She nodded. "Yes, Professor."

With one more sharp look, he stepped onto the first stair, and with a heavy sound of stone-on-stone, the staircase began to move.

Hermione had heard Harry talk about Professor Dumbledore's office before, but she had never seen it for herself. She resisted the urge to crane her neck to see around the curving staircase, instead leaning back against the wall, her arms crossed over the stomach. It was nearly seven o' clock; her stomach rumbled slightly, and she pressed her arms more tightly against it, embarrassed. At least Snape wasn't here to hear it and make a snide remark.

The nerves she felt the night before had not yet gone away; had only multiplied, in fact, after she made the mistake of going to Snape's old office. The fact that he was now teaching Defense terrified her; while he had never complimented her in Potions, she had always received good marks, and of course, Snape never complimented anyone, except, occasionally, his Slytherins. In Defense, however, no matter how hard she worked, Hermione knew that she just didn't have the natural aptitude that Harry had, and she felt a quiver of pure dread down her spine, imagining a class with Snape where she had no real chance of excelling. Especially when, if he did agree to teach her Occlumency, she would have to spend time with him outside of class, giving him even more opportunities to berate her shoddy performance. And if there was anything in the world that Hermione Granger feared as much as Voldemort, it was doing poorly--particularly in front of someone as intelligent and cruel-tongued as Snape.

She frowned, staring at her feet in their scuffed Oxfords. In spite of her insecurities about Defense, she was as certain as she could be that she would be able to learn Occlumency; as much as she disliked Snape's harsh criticisms, she had to admit--even if her peers would not--that he was a competent instructor. And she had never been given to false modesty where her own abilities were concerned, despite the fact that such modesty might occasionally be beneficial to her social life. But teaching it to Harry. . . Harry was smart, and a fast learner when he wanted to be, but he had such an ingrained hatred of _everything_ associated with Professor Snape that she worried that he would turn away from her efforts. She sighed. The night before, when she and Ron returned to the common room after getting the first years settled into their rooms, they had found Harry sitting slightly apart from the other Gryffindors, scowling into the fireplace, his messy black hair falling into his eyes. He'd resisted their attempts at conversation, refused to play exploding snap when Ginny suggested he join her and Dean Thomas in a game, and finally left the common room in a huff, taking the stairs to the boys' dormitory two at a time.

"I don't know what to do," she'd said to Ron privately. "He's worse, since I saw him at the beginning of summer."

"He was like this the whole time he stayed with us," Ron said. He ran a hand through his hair, drawing his wide mouth off the side discontentedly. "Blew hot and cold. I didn't know what to say to him. . ."

"I know." Hermione scrubbed her hands over her face. "I've never lost my. . . well, Sirius is really his only family, we can't count those wretched Muggles. Was his only family. Oh God. I honestly can't imagine what he's going through. And. . . I just don't know what to do. How to help him."

Ron slung an arm about her shoulders then, his big hand rubbing slow, warm circles on her upper arm. "We'll figure it out," he said, somehow sounding uncharacteristically mature. "I mean, we always have, eh?"

She'd turned to give him a weak smile, only to find his freckled face incredibly close to hers. They stared at each other for a moment, before he blushed abruptly; she felt her own face color in response, and he'd jerked his arm away from her, muttering a quick good-night, and hurried up the stairs before she could completely realize that he had been gazing at her mouth, and not her eyes.

Her cheeks warmed slightly, and she felt a slight tingling in her belly that had nothing to do with hunger. Shaking herself mentally, she glanced at the stone gargoyle guarding the one-again tightly-closed entrance to Dumbledore's office. Nothing for it, then; ignoring the looks, some curious, some hostile, from a mixed group of younger Ravenclaws and Syltherins on their way to the Great Hall, she slid down the stone wall and sat on the floor with a thump. Digging around inside her school satchel, she found a quill and some fresh parchment, and began taking notes on the first chapter of her Defense text. No sense in giving Snape more reason to refuse her by being unprepared for his first class.

. . . . .

Severus left the girl gaping unattractively at him as he ascended the stone staircase to Dumbledore's office. The upper door was closed, though he had no doubt the Headmaster was aware of his arrival.

He knocked sharply.

"Come in," Dumbledore called.

When he opened the door, Severus winced slightly at the sight of Dumbledore seated behind his desk, a teapot painted in bright cabbage roses hovering in the air before him, and a plate of unbearably sweet-looking biscuits, half-eaten, resting on the desk's edge.

"I need to speak with you on a matter of. . . some importance, Headmaster," Severus said.

Dumbledore waved at the chintz chair across the desk from where he sat.

"Of course, Severus. Would you care for some tea? Or a biscuit, perhaps? I find that, waking as early as I generally do, I can often use a bit of a nibble before breakfast officially begins."

"No, thank you," Severus said, the curl of his lip making his refusal slightly ungracious.

"Very well." Dumbledore conjured a napkin and blotted his lips with it. "What is it, my boy?"

Severus shuddered inwardly at the endearment, but said nothing about it, choosing instead to rise from his seat and move to the window, so that he was standing slightly behind Dumbledore, forcing the older wizard to look up at him. He clasped his hands behind his back.

"I have received a. . . request from a student, that I thought deserved some consideration," he said carefully. "Hermione Granger thinks it would be prudent for her to learn Occlumency."

Behind him, he heard Dumbledore set the spoon with which he had been stirring another lump of sugar into his tea onto his saucer. "What did you tell her?" he asked, any hint of joviality gone from his voice.

Severus turned. "I told her nothing!" he said tersely. "Only that I must speak with you." His eyes narrowed, and he practically spat the next words. "Did you really think, old man, that I would make a decision of this import without discussing it with you first?"

Dumbledore steepled his fingers, his blue eyes uncharacteristically grave. "I have learned through long experience to leave expectations out of such things," he said. "I did not mean to imply any disloyalty on your part. Understanding this, allow me ask--what is your impression of Miss Granger's request?"

Severus exhaled loudly through his nose. "She wants to teach Potter," he said, managing to keep the sneer from his voice through sheer force of will. "She thinks that their _friendship_ will be sufficient to overcome Potter's deficiencies of concentration and discipline."

"Ah." An expression of satisfaction ghosted over Dumbledore's face. "I had wondered how to go about rectifying Harry's lack of expertise in this area." His eyes twinkled.

"You can neither bait nor insult me," Severus said stiffly. "Not on this matter. It is too important."

"Indeed it is. And Miss Granger believes that she can instruct Harry?"

"Assuming that she can learn it herself." Even to his own ears, Severus sounded sulky.

"Do you think she can?" Dumbledore leaned forward slightly in his seat, his blackened hand rested on top of his good one in his lap. Severus looked away from it.

"She is. . . not without intelligence," he admitted ungraciously. "And she can be. . . ferocious, in her pursuit of knowledge." He glanced out the window, noting that the sun was fully risen and burnishing the grounds a pale gold.

"As you were, if I recall correctly."

Severus looked back at Dumbledore coolly. "A parallel that I noticed years ago," he said quellingly. "Though Miss Granger, at least, seems to have some sense of which knowledge is worth attaining." He shook his head, his black hair falling forward to hide his face momentarily; a useful trick that he had developed as a child, when his appearance was often neglected by his parents and his hair allowed to grow longer than it ought. Then, as now, the curtain it provided proved an indispensable tool for hiding his true thought and emotions, so he had kept his hair long even as he grew older, though luckily, in the Wizarding world, long hair was less remarked upon than in the Muggle one. "But yes," he said, still not looking at the Headmaster, "I do believe her capable of learning."

"Then you must teach her," Dumbledore said briskly.

"I am no more eager to teach Potter's little friends outside of class than I was to teach him," Severus said angrily. "Given the result of _those_ lessons, I believe you can understand my reluctance."

Dumbledore peered at him through his spectacles. "You said yourself that this was important, Severus, And it is, vitally. Harry's inability to close his mind to Voldemort's intrusions could prove fatal to our cause. I allowed the lessons to cease last year, against my better judgement, thinking that I would take them up myself this year. But now. . ." He lifted his injured hand. "I have other things to teach Harry, and more to do than I've time left to do it in. Or so I'm told." He met Severus's eyes levelly.

Severus swallowed, his throat suddenly feeling swollen. "Yes," he said, though he was aware that he had been asked no question. He paused, watching the whirring instruments on the desk to allow himself a moment to collect himself. "I will have need of your pensieve," he said abruptly, as soon as the burning behind his eyes disappeared.

Dumbledore stood and made his way to the office door. "That, I am afraid, I cannot grant you," he said, sounding, for once, genuinely regretful.

"What?"

"It is necessary for my lessons with Harry, and I find that as. . . certain eventualities draw nearer, I must make use of it myself more and more frequently, in order to make sense of my own thoughts."

Severus stared at him, a feeling of horror growing within him. "You cannot make me teach her without it," he said. "You know that if Potter has told her about using a Shield charm to deflect my Legilimency, she'll be able to see. . . everything."

Dumbledore shook his head. "My boy, I know your desire for privacy. But the importance of these lessons outweighs whatever embarrassment you might feel."

"It is not only my privacy that concerns me, Albus! What of the Vow? What of Draco? What of--" he waved a hand in a frustrated gestured that attempted to encompass everything that had happened in the last few months, from Dumbledore's cursed appendage to the bone-numbing fear that seemed now to constantly weigh down his own body. "She will be privy to everything that you have tried to keep from Potter. And I am certain--you _know_--that even if Potter has not run his mouth to her, she will likely use the charm on her own. And that knowledge will put her in more danger, as well."

"Miss Granger has proved herself to be a competent witch," Dumbledore said, his voice taking on a thoughtful tone. "But she is young, and Muggle-born. If she _does_ learn about the Vow, I think there is no guarantee that she will even grasp the true implications of it."

Severus thought that Dumbledore had been too preoccupied with Potter, these last years, or he would not have underestimated the irritating girl's doggedness. "And if she does?" he asked.

Dumbledore considered him. "If she does," he said finally, "she will hardly be in more danger than she is now. You must understand, Severus, that because of her friendship with Harry, Miss Granger will already be privy to things that you, and other Order members, are not, just as you and I are both aware of circumstances that no one else knows of. And if you teach her, she should be able to Occlude sufficiently well to avoid having what she knows learned of by Tom and his followers. And this might. . ." He paused, his mouth pursed into a little bow above the great white sweep of his beard. "This could prove to be exactly what we need to ensure that Harry does things correctly, after I am gone." He ignored Severus's grunt of dismay.

"Albus," Severus interrupted, only the unlikely deepening of his already deep voice betraying his distress, "whatever it is that Potter needs to know, surely there are easier ways than this." _Such as opening your fucking mouth and TELLING him,_ he thought, but refrained from saying. His head throbbed. Dumbledore's games were wearisome, indeed. "Occlumency is an inexact art," he said instead, struggling to keep his voice level. "There is always the chance that she will see only part of the truth, and lead Potter astray as a result. Or, more likely, that I will learn something you have wanted to keep from me." The thought sent a chill through him; as much as he loathed Dumbledore's machinations, he had to admit that he already knew so much about the Order's plans that should the Dark Lord finally breach his mental defenses, the results would be disastrous. Knowing more was a daunting prospect.

Dumbledore put his hands on his thighs, palms-up, as if in supplication, but to who or what Severus could not imagine. "It is a risk I am willing to take. We are nearing the end, I believe, at long last. Harry must learn, and Miss Granger has helpfully offered us a way to teach him. Shield charm, or no." He opened his mouth as if to say more, then closed it again, looking thoughtful, and Severus wondered whether he had been about to point out that Potter had seen at least one memory not through the use of a Shield charm, but by viewing it directly in the pensieve.

He began to pace furiously. Certainly a pensieve was not a foolproof way of keeping his memories private, but he had learned his lesson, and would certainly not be keeping the pensieve out where Miss Granger or any other of Potter's cohorts could dip into it whenever the mood struck them. _Let's see what secrets old Snivelly's keeping_, he imagined them saying. Shame coursed through him at the thought of all that Potter had seen, knowing that, being Potter, he must have gleefully shared his knowledge with all of his his fellow Gryffindors--or at least with Granger and Weasley. _Loathsome snake. . . repulsive. . ._

"Albus--please," he said desperately, but Dumbledore sighed.

"It is quite impossible," he said, holding up his good hand to prevent any other protestations. "And now, Severus, I believe that you must allow Miss Granger to go down to breakfast. It would not do for her to begin her first classes for the term on an empty stomach." He looked at Severus levelly. "I trust that you will be able to sort out a time that will be suitable for both you and Miss Granger to begin her lessons."

"Yes, Headmaster," Severus said through clenched teeth.

"Excellent. Now do hurry, you look as if you could do with a spot of breakfast yourself, my boy." Dumbledore smiled, and opened the office door.

Snape stepped through. His stomach felt leaden, the thought of breakfast making him queasy. He nodded tersely before turning and allowing the stone staircase to begin its slow, unerring spiral downwards.

. . . . .

Hermione leapt to her feet when the stone gargoyle moved aside, making way for Professor Snape as he stepped out into the hallway.

Clutching her Defense textbook to her chest, she watched Snape carefully for any sign of his and the Headmaster's decision. He looked furious, she saw with alarm, his mouth a thin slash, his dark eyes burning. Then he turned his back on her and stared at the wall, standing perfectly still for a moment but for the clenching and unclenching of his fists at his sides, not looking at her at all.

"Professor?" she said hesitantly when he didn't turn around. "Sir--are you all right?"

"I am fine, Miss Granger," he said in a tight voice. She heard him take a deep breath, and then he turned, his face impressively blank.

"The Headmaster has requested that you run along to breakfast like a good little Gryffindor," he said snidely. "But before you do, we must make arrangements to meet." His voice dropped low, and cut his eyes down the hall in both directions. "For your. . . Defense review sessions." His eyes narrowed at her, as if daring her to contradict him.

"Oh! Yes," she said, wishing her heart would stop hammering whenever he looked cross with her. If he was implying what she thought he was, it would be a terrible strain on that organ, should it continue to overwork itself in this manner. He never looked at her without appearing cross, after all. Heat crawled up her neck and cheeks. They both knew, she was certain, that while Harry's cover story about remedial Potions would be unbelievable if used by her, few would question it if she took extra lessons with Snape to work on Defense, as it was easily her worst subject. At least he hadn't used the word "remedial"; that would be too embarrassing for words.

"I am free tomorrow evening after dinner," Snape said. "Come to my classroom then." And he swept down the hall in a flurry of robes and unkempt hair.

She sighed. It would be too much to hope that he would ask _her_ whether that time suited. Then she hugged her book more tightly, excitement making her grin suddenly. She was going to learn Occlumency.

And choosing to ignore her residual nervousness, Hermione picked up her school bag and hurried toward the Great Hall for a plate of toast and a cup of very, very strong tea.


	4. Much unseen is also here

Disclaimer: None of it is mine, more's the pity.

. . . . .

Hermione slid onto a bench at the Gryffindor table between Ginny, staring bleary-eyed into her tea, and Harry, who was slathering jam on a piece of toast and looking far more cheerful than he had the night before.

"Morning," Hermione said. Ginny mumbled something incoherent, and Ron, on the other side of Harry, waggled his fingers vaguely at her, his mouth full of eggs and sausage. She sighed inwardly; it was as though last night before the fire hadn't happened. Not that much _had_ happened, of course, but still. . .

"Morning!" Harry said around a mouthful of toast. "Where've you been? We asked Parvati where you were and she said you were already gone when she got up."

"Oh, er. . ." Hermione glanced up at the Head Table, but Professor Snape was nowhere to be seen. Belatedly, she realized that she hadn't asked him whether she could tell Ron and Harry about their lessons.

Well, Harry would have to know eventually anyway, and she reasoned that Ron ought to know anything she and Harry did.

"I was meeting with Professor Snape," she said in an undertone.

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Snape?" he said, too loudly. "Why?"

"Hush! And that's Professor Snape. And I can't tell you--yet," she said hastily, as he opened his mouth to protest. "Not here. Later."

Harry gave her a hard look, then shrugged. "All right." He reached for the teapot. "Want some?"

"Thanks." She inhaled the steam gratefully, and took a cautious sip so as not to burn her tongue. Her excitement was already beginning to fade, replaced instead by muzzy-headed tiredness. "What've you got first period? I've got Ancient Runes."

Harry grinned. "Free," he said. On his other side, Ron bobbed his head in gleeful agreement, quickly swallowing a bite of sausage.

"And more free periods later on," he gloated.

Hermione tsked slightly under her breath. "There's a reason sixth years have free periods," she said. "We're going to have loads more homework this year, I bet."

Harry rolled his eyes. "It's the first day!" he protested. "Can't you let us enjoy it at least a little? Besides, I've got the team captaincy this year; I'll be using a lot of my free periods for practice." Behind his glasses, his green eyes were dancing at the prospect.

Hermione smiled slightly; trust Harry to go from brooding to elated in the space of ten hours, and all because of a silly game like Quidditch. But if that's what it took. . .

"Brilliant," she said, buttering a piece of toast. "That means the games'll be really good this year."

Harry gave her an odd look, but she just smiled again. Ron was staring at her, the toast in his hand completely forgotten and in danger of falling onto the floor.

"Since when do you care about Quidditch?" he asked.

Hermione shrugged. "I don't, really. But I figure if it can make Harry this happy, it's worth taking a second look at." She jerked her head in Harry's direction.

Harry laughed. "Well thanks, Hermione."

She bit into her toast and smiled again, cutting her eyes at Ron. He had returned to his breakfast and was busily cutting up another sausage, but before breakfast was finished she noticed him glance consideringly at her several times, the tips of his ears glowing with something that she suspected was pleasure.

It was worth the fact that now she would have to pay attention to Quidditch to have him watching her like that, she decided.

. . . . .

Ancient Runes was really a fascinating subject; Hermione didn't understand why she could never convince Ron and Harry of that fact. This year's class was even smaller than before, and she found she enjoyed the quick pace and back-and-forth exchange of ideas and translations between the eight students and Professor Babbling, who encouraged them to voice their ideas freely.

All in all, a thoroughly excellent class to start off the term, in spite of the mountain of homework that Professor Babbling had given them.

She glanced at her schedule and sighed; she had Defense next, and after being late to their meeting this morning and then the oddly strained scene in the hallway, she was looking forward to seeing Professor Snape even less than she normally would. Remembering her breathless sprint through the hallways a few hours before, she began walking more quickly, determined not to be late this time.

Of course, she was the first one at the Defense classroom door; she stood in the hall outside of it, gazing at the closed door with a frown. Usually classroom doors were open when a class was expected to begin in only a few minutes. Trust Snape to keep his students out of his personal space until he was absolutely forced to endure their presence.

A few other students began trickling down the hall; she glanced at Draco Malfoy and his cronies, and immediately regretted it when Malfoy skimmed her body with his eyes, ending with a dismissive snort.

"Summer didn't do you any favors, Granger," he said, and smirked when the other Slytherins snickered.

"Shove off, Malfoy," she muttered, blushing slightly and hating herself for caring what he or anyone else said about her looks.

"But then Mudbloods aren't exactly famous for being attractive," he said, crossing his arms across his chest.

Suddenly, Harry and Ron were there in the corridor as well. "Shut it, Malfoy, or I swear you'll regret it," Harry said, his voice low and even and frighteningly sinister. At the same time, Ron shouted, "Don't call her that!"

Malfoy tightened his grip on his wand, but then glanced at the door to the Defense classroom and shrugged. "Not saying a word doesn't make it any less true," he said, and deliberately turned his back on them.

Hermione reached out to close her fingers around Ron's wand before he could cast a hex. "Don't!" she hissed. "If you're seen, it'll look like you attacked him from behind."

"Bloody snake," Ron muttered, lowering his wand.

"Just leave it," she said, putting a hand on Harry's arm as well in an attempt to draw his single-minded attention away from the group of Slytherins. "I can always punch him again if he gets too irritating."

That got a smile from Harry, and he put his wand back up his sleeve, glancing at the small mountain of books she was carrying.

She wrinkled her nose. _"We got so much homework for Runes,"_ she said._ "A fifteen-inch essay, two translations, and I've got to read these by Wednesday!"_ The thought made her anxious as she remembered that tomorrow night would be at least partly taken up by her Occlumency lesson. When on earth would she have time to finish everything?

_"Shame," yawned Ron._

_"You wait," she said resentfully. "I bet Snape gives us loads."_

_"Professor_ Snape," Harry grinned. "Right?"

She stuck her tongue out at him just as the door to the classroom opened to show their professor, his dark eyes sliding from one student to the next.

_"Inside," he said._

Hermione shuffled in behind Harry and Ron, craning her neck to take in everything she had missed when she raced through that morning to reach the office on the other side of the room. Snape had made the room as dark as his dungeon classroom, and she shuddered when she noticed the pictures of curse victims lining the walls.

"A bit much, isn't it?" Ron muttered.

"A bit melodramatic," she whispered back, taking out her textbook and folding her hands on top of it.

Snape had taken his place at the front of the classroom, still watching each of them in turn, probably for their reactions to their grisly surroundings. He did not, Hermione noticed, look at her even once.

_"The Dark Arts,"_ he said, seeming to glide around the classroom as he spoke, _"are many, varied, ever-changing, and eternal. Fighting them is like fighting a many-headed monster, which, each time a neck is severed, sprouts a head even fiercer and cleverer than before. You are fighting that which is unfixed, mutating, indestructible."_

Hermione shivered, listening as he began to point to each illustration in turn, describing the curse it portrayed. Already she could tell that Defense lessons with Snape were going to be very different than Defense lessons with any other teacher they'd had, even Barty Crouch Jr. in disguise. Snape described the Dark Arts as if they were something with which he was intimately familiar, like they were a former lover whose charms he understood and still pined for, but who had wronged him terribly somehow in the past. In that deep voice she could hear both caress and bitterness, and for some reason the sound made her almost unbearably sad.

For the rest of the hour, she scribbled notes madly, then paired with Neville in order to practice nonverbal Shield Charms. Snape circled the room like a great black cat, adjusting a wand-grip here, sneering out a criticism there, but he never came over to her and Neville. In a way it was a relief not to have him constantly over their shoulders as he had been in Potions, but then again, he often _had_ to stay close to the two of them then in order to prevent Neville from making a disastrous mistake and blowing up his cauldron. Now, after Harry's tutelage with the D.A., Hermione was pleased to see that Neville was holding his own; when he finally managed to jinx her nonverbally, it nearly knocked her backwards; she got her Shield up just in time. Nonverbal spells were something she had been working on for more than a year on her own; in this Defense lesson, at least, she knew she was doing well.

"Good show, Neville," she said, smiling and righting herself. She glanced around the room. Snape was leaning over Draco Malfoy's shoulder, giving the appearance that he was saying something privately in the blond's ear. Hermione frowned, then turned her attention back to her partner.

It was with relief that she escaped at the end of class, not having drawn Snape's criticism even once.

. . . . .

Later that night, Hermione was bent over her homework at a table in the library, trying to make her handwriting as small as possible in order to fit everything she needed to into the allotted fifteen inches. In addition to her Ancient Runes work, Snape had given them fourteen inches on nonverbal spell casting, and Professor McGonagall had set them four chapters to read.

A tap on her shoulder nearly make her shriek, and she turned to see Harry and Ron standing behind her.

"You startled me!" she said, turning slightly in her seat to look at them. Ron helpfully moved around the table and sat down in the chair across from her; Harry settled for squatting beside the table with his forearms resting upon it.

"Merlin, Hermione," Ron said, taking in the books and parchment strewn across the tabletop. "It's only our first day back; relax a little."

"I don't have time to relax," she said. She set down her quill resignedly, guessing that they wouldn't be leaving anytime soon. "I've got to finish this tonight; I won't have time tomorrow."

That got Harry's attention. "Why not?"

Hermione glanced around the apparently deserted library, leaning over the table so that her head was close to his. "I have a lesson with Professor Snape," she said quietly. "Tomorrow night, after dinner."

A frown etched itself between Harry's eyebrows. "What for?" he asked.

She paused, knowing that she had to approach the subject the right way or risk raising Harry's ire not only with Professor Snape, but with her as well. "The 'official' reason is Defense review," she said cautiously. "But really, I asked him to help me with something important."

"What?" Ron asked, leaning forward.

Again she hesitated, then decided that they were all Gryffindors and there was no sense in trying to be delicate. "He's going to be teaching me Occlumency," she said, watching both boys carefully for their reactions.

Ron frowned slightly in confusion, but didn't say anything. Harry, however, stared at her, eyes blazing and looking eerily like Professor Snape's had that morning.

"Why would you want to spend any extra time with that git, much less _ask_ him to root around in your mind?" he demanded, his voice was rising with each word.

"Lower your voice!" she hissed.

Harry opened his mouth to say something, but she shook her head, her hair flying around her face. "Because I think you need to learn," she said bluntly. "I think _all_ of us should learn, really; none of us can prevent everything we know from being seen by Voldemort if we're ever taken." She looked at Harry seriously, watching as the fury left his eyes to be replaced by a wary acceptance of her words. "Professor Snape can teach me, and I can teach the two of you."

"Why him?" Harry asked. "He hates all of us."

She rolled her eyes. "Really, how many Occlumens are there in this school? In all of Britain, for that matter? According to "Legilimizing Lions" by Sir Robert Sedgewick, both Occlumency and Legilimency are very rare skills for a witch or wizard to have. Of course, there's always a good chance that some Occlumens don't publicize their knowledge, so really the official count could be quite off, but--"

"Dumbledore's an Occlumens," Harry interrupted. "Why not ask him?"

Hermione raised her eyebrows. She had long suspected that Harry didn't realize just how privileged his private access to the Headmaster was. "I've hardly ever had a one-on-one conversation with Professor Dumbledore," she said. "And besides, he's giving _you_ private instruction this year; do you really think he has time for me?"

Harry frowned. "Maybe not," he admitted. "But I really don't like the idea of Snape reading your mind."

Hermione bit back her automatic response that Legilimency was _not_ what Muggles called "mind-reading," but was really much more complex and involved all of the senses, and hadn't he paid attention to Professor Snape at _all_ in their lessons? Instead, she smiled. "Neither do I," she said honestly, "but I'm hoping to come to some sort of agreement with him about that."

Ron snorted. "Agreement? With Snape?"

She bristled. "Well, after what happened with Harry, he might want to!" Harry had never told them the full extent of what happened during his lessons, only that he had managed to see some of Snape's memories, and that they hadn't been good. Hermione could not imagine Snape wanting a repeat of whatever happened; nor did she imagine he really cared to know the details of her life.

"It'll be fine," she said placatingly. "Now shoo--I _have_ to finish this, and it's nearly curfew!"

. . . . .

Down in the dungeons, Severus sat slumped in a chair before the fire in his quarters, a tumbler containing a scant finger's width of Ogden's clutched in one hand. Although it was only the beginning of September, his rooms were chilly, and he was grateful for the fireplace with its large, hot blaze. Although his classroom was now aboveground, Severus had not considered moving his quarters; after all, he was still Head of Slytherin and needed to be close to his charges.

It was well past the students' curfew, and Severus knew he ought to go to bed. The headache that had begun that morning had only worsened throughout the day and now thrust itself like a dagger into his skull, just behind his eyes. He didn't bother Summoning a pain relieving potion; those had long since ceased to do anything for him.

He knocked back the whiskey in one smooth gulp and set the glass on the table by his elbow, then leaned back in his chair and glowered at the fire. How had the year already gotten so royally fucked up? First the Dark Lord insisted on saddling him with Pettrigrew, whose presence during the few months he generally had to himself made him feel as though he might go truly mad. Then Narcissa and her impossible request. In the dancing flames he fancied he saw Bellatrix's mad eyes when she came to his home with her sister, narrowed and suspicious.

And now this. He ran his hands through his hair, letting out a low growl of frustration. Granger. Her logic was sound, but as usual she had thrown herself into a course of action without taking the time to consider the consequences. She must have, he reasoned, for if she had stopped to think she would have realized that such lessons as she proposed would leave an entire lifetime of her memories, thoughts and emotions bare to him. Not to mention what _she_ might see, should she pull a Potter.

He glanced at his empty tumbler, frowning, then poured himself another two fingers of whiskey. It burned pleasantly as it went down, and he could feel that prickling tightness in his neck and shoulders that meant he could be well and pleasantly drunk if he kept going. He probably should not have missed dinner.

Standing, he shed his robes, tossing them carelessly over the back of the chair he had been sitting in. His frock coat, shirt, trousers and socks followed it, to be laundered by the house elves tomorrow; his boots he set by one of the tall bookcases that lined his walls. He pulled on his nightshirt and climbed into bed, setting his wand carefully under his pillow, within easy reach should he need it quickly in the night. Then he lay on his back and stared up at the deep green canopy, slowly going through his mental exercises to allow himself to close his mind to nighttime intrusions, and, finally, to sleep.

But that night sleep did not come until dawn had begun to tinge the pitch-black horizon with the faintest silver, no matter how firmly Severus pushed his own thoughts to the back of his mind and kept his visualization at the forefront. And when he did sleep, he dreamt that he was enveloped in a blanket of silky red hair; that a pair of wide eyes the exact green of new spring leaves were staring into his, the faintest crinkle of a smile at their corners. His dream-self opened his mouth, intending to ask--something--but both thought and words were cut off when a small pink mouth began tracing its way along his jaw and down his neck, soft as petals brushing his skin. It moved slowly, lazily, opening fully to kiss wide circles on one of his shoulders, puckering as it moved across his chest to press gently against his nipples. It brushed his stomach, his sides, then stopped. Staring down his body, dream-Severus found himself faced again with those eyes, now solemn verging on angry. They watched him for nearly a full minute before the mouth began kissing him again, its movement no longer languid but bruisingly hard. Dream-Severus found that he could move, if with difficulty; he reached for the woman crouched over him, trying to pull her toward him, feeling as though every nerve in his body was housed in his own mouth and needing desperately to feel her lips on his. She did not resist, per se, but neither did she acquiesce, kissing him everywhere, everywhere, yes, even below his waist, that small mouth stretching to accommodate him, but nothing felt quite right when all he wanted was to feel her nuzzled close against him, to kiss her properly. His first emotion upon feeling that silken hair settling itself around him was elation; now he suddenly felt trapped, a panicky feeling flaring to life in his chest as the woman continued her ministrations.

When he woke less than two hours after he had dozed off he felt as though he had not slept at all.

. . . . .

That day passed in a haze of tiredness, something that Severus had grown accustomed to over the fives years since the Dark Lord was discovered living like a parasite on the back of that fool Quirrell's head. He downed four cups of strong black coffee at breakfast and went through his classes feeling alternately exhausted and edgy, so that by the time dinner rolled around he was in a fine temper. Minerva tried making conversation over the lamb and roast potatoes, but he found it difficult to concentrate, instead mechanically sawing at his meat and chewing efficiently, glancing now and again at the Gryffindor table where Miss Granger sat with Potter, Weasley, and Neville Longbottom. The three boys were engaged in some sort of animated discussion--Severus's lip curled as he watched Weasley, gesticulating wildly with his fork to illustrate some point, fling a potato down the table and into the younger Creevey boy's goblet of pumpkin juice--but Miss Granger was bent over a large book on the table, her dinner plate shoved to one side as she traced the words with one finger and threaded the fingers of her other hand through her abundant hair, tugging as though in frustration. He allowed himself a moment of hope, that she would become to engrossed in her reading that she would miss their appointment, thus giving him an excuse to cancel the lessons; but the next moment he saw her lift her head and glance around the Great Hall, where students were slowly beginning to finish their dinners and make their way back to their dormitories or into some other mischief that Severus preferred not to think about. She looked up at the Head Table, catching his eye before he could look away, and gave him a small smile before leaning down and whispering something in Weasley's ear. The redhead looked unhappy, but nodded, and then she had packed up her books and left the Great Hall, faster than Severus would have thought possible, and he had no choice but to wipe his mouth, set down his napkin, and leave himself through the staff entrance at the back of the room.

When he reached his classroom, Severus was unsurprised to see Miss Granger already standing in the hallway outside, studying the painting that hung there. The painting was empty this evening, Severus noted with relief; gossip could spread faster through those portraits even than by means of the students' mouths.

"Miss Granger," he said, and was gratified to see her startle. "I am glad to see you managed to find your way here in a timely manner."

"Yes, Sir," she said, clutching her satchel tightly in front of her chest.

"Get inside, then," he said. "I have better things to do than review counter-curses with know-it-all Gryffindors."

She glared at him, but said nothing. He opened the door, then held out his arm mockingly; she swept through, not looking at him again.

Once inside the classroom Severus closed and warded the door, then strode to the front of the room, crossed his arms, and looked down his nose at her. She was standing uncertainly beside the first row of student desks, looking oddly small and rumpled, her student robes creased with the day's wear, her eyes looking nearly as tired and bloodshot as his felt. He wondered suddenly whether she could possibly have lost sleep over the prospect of their lesson as well, then dismissed the thought. No doubt she was up late breaking school rules with Potter and Weasley, or writing twenty inches more than assigned on each of her homework essays.

"Sit," he said, noting scornfully that she chose her usual seat. Immediately, however, he felt less wrong-footed; standing at the front of the classroom, with her looking up at him from her place amid the rows of cramped student desks gave him some semblance of control. He touched his fingertips to his mouth, thinking, then said, "Occlumency is a useful, if seldom-taught, skill. It is, in fact, all the more advantageous for its rarity. Few wizards really understand it, much less know how to employ it, meaning that should you manage to learn you shall be able to keep information from nearly anyone who attempts to take it from you."

At this point, the girl thrust her hand in the air, looking ridiculously like her overeager first-year self. She had been scribbling notes furiously on a bit of parchment, though how she managed to take up nearly a quarter of a page with what little he had just said, Severus couldn't fathom.

"What?" he snapped.

She lowered her hand. "Sir, I don't understand--shouldn't anyone skilled in Legilimency be able to tell if I use Occlumency against them?"

He leaned back against the table, pinching the bridge of his nose. "No," he said at length. "Occlumency and Legilimency are, of course, related disciplines; however, not all Occlumens are Legilimens, and vice versa." He stood again, and began moving about the room in his usual lecture style. "There are very different skills involved in each discipline. A Legilimens must have some ruthlessness within him in order to break into and remain inside of someone else's mind. An Occlumens must be disciplined and able to compartmentalize his thoughts and emotions, but," he raised a finger, "he cannot be entirely cut off from himself. He must, in Muggle parlance, truly _know_ himself, or he will not be able to recognize what he has that must be suppressed. Most wizards do not possess the qualities necessary to be proficient in both areas."

She was staring at him intently, and Severus cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable under the directness of her gaze. He had noticed that she looked at him like this in Potions, particularly when he was explaining the theory behind some arcane brew; now, untempered by twenty other students surrounding her, there was nothing to distract him from it.

She put her hand up again, hesitantly, and he barked, "For Circe's sake, girl, we're not in class! Just ask your question; you look like a fool."

She colored. "Sorry, Professor. You said that few witches and wizards have both skills." She paused, clearly trying to find the best way to frame her question.

Severus, however, was in no mood to wait. "I know what I said, Miss Granger," he said.

"Right. Ah. Can you tell me just how many Legilimens and Occlumens there are among the Death Eaters? It's only--well, they're the ones Harry and everyone needs to worry about hiding things from; it would be useful to know who is even capable of Legilimizing us, or knowing if we're Occluding."

Severus tapped his forefinger against his lips. "If you pay attention and learn well, _no one_ should be able to tell when you are employing Occlumency," he said impatiently. "The most rudimentary use of Occlumency involves using visualization techniques--" She opened her mouth to say something and he pressed on-- "which we will be discussing later--to simply block all thoughts and emotions from an intruder. A more advanced Occlumens can actually suppress only certain thoughts and memories, leaving other, less dangerous one, free, and the mind appearing entirely open to the intruder's perusal." He glanced at her, to see that she was taking notes once again. "As far as the Death Eaters go. . . Both Lestranges are accomplished Legilimens, and Bellatrix is a known Occlumens. Lucius Malfoy, likewise, has mastered both, though Narcissa Malfoy has mastered only the most basic use of Occlumency, and does not have the. . . disposition necessary to learn Legilimency." He paused, wondering briefly if he should mention that he suspected Draco of having learned Occlumency recently, then decided against it. "For the others," he continued, "I cannot say--only a few know of my skill as a Legilimens, and none, so far as I am aware, know that I am an Occlumens as well. Death Eaters as a whole, and the Slytherins among them in particular, tend to keep their knowledge a secret until it is worthwhile having it revealed," he said dryly.

She was staring at him again.

"It is worth noting that the Dark Lord is one of the most accomplished Legilimens I have met, but that he never bothered to learn Occlumency." Severus clenched his fists together and stared down at his bloodless fingers.

"Volde--er--You-Know-Who can't Occlude?" she said incredulously. "Why?"

Severus kept his face blank. "One would assume, Miss Granger, based on his overblown displays of raw power over the years, the Dark Lord feels such a. . . subtle art to be unnecessary."

"I want to learn Legilimency as well as Occlumency." The words nearly tumbled out of her mouth, and Severus stared at her incredulously.

"Are you _ruthless_, Miss Granger?" he asked then, deliberately pitching his voice lower until it rumbled dangerously. "Do you truly believe yourself capable of looking into a Death Eater's mind without recoiling from what you find hidden there?" He sneered at her. "I suppose you think that you could start with my mind. That you can learn my secrets. That you can use that knowledge against me."

"No, I. . ." she trailed off, clearly appalled.

"I have agreed to teach you one thing, and one thing only, Miss Granger," he said, cutting her off. "I see little point in having one of the most irritating knowledge-seekers I have ever come across in possession of the ability to rip information from others' possession." He pressed his lips together, his body so tense that his very muscles ached with it. "Get out," he said. "We will start your Occlumency lessons in two nights. But get out now, Miss Granger, or so help me, your House will lose every point it has gained in the past two days."

The girl looked frozen.

"Get out!" he shouted then, slamming both hands hard against his desk. "Leave, and do not, do not speak of learning such things again."

She fled.


	5. Conceiv'd in the open air

Disclaimer: None of it is mine, more's the pity.

. . . . .

Hermione moved quickly down the hallways of Hogwarts, her legs carrying her in short, fast steps past students returning to their dormitories before curfew from the library or the grounds or the Quidditch pitch. Her throat felt blocked, as though she needed to cry, but no tears prickled at the edges of her eyes, and besides, what good would crying do?

And really, what exactly was there to cry about? So Professor Snape had shouted at her; that was nothing new. He still planned to honor their first agreement and teach her Occlumency, and in hindsight, it had been silly of her to try to get more out of him, especially when their first lesson had barely begun.

She stopped short when she reached the castle's entrance. Without really thinking about it, she had been letting her feet take her toward Gryffindor Tower. The boys had told her they were going to the grounds after dinner, though, and it was still more than an hour until curfew; the lesson had lasted barely twenty minutes before she managed to bollocks it up. And outside, there would be fewer people around to overhear them--assuming she could pull Harry and Ron away from the pick-up Quidditch game they were almost inevitably playing.

Resolutely, she hitched her bag higher onto her shoulder and set off out the enormous main doors, across the courtyard, and onto the grounds.

To her surprise, she found the two boys sitting together under a tree near the lake, bent over what looked--though it couldn't be, that would be too odd!--like a textbook. She squinted against the rapidly fading sunlight, then huffed in annoyance when she realized it was Harry's Potions text. Harry's performance in Potions had been nothing short of miraculous, given his previous struggles with the subject; when she realized at the end of the period that he had been using the notes of whoever the book used to belong to, she was infuriated, particularly when Professor Slughorn kept heaping praise on Harry's dark head. She at least always _earned_ her marks; wasn't it just like Harry to take the easy way rather than learn on his own? Well, he could see if she went over his homework essays for him anymore.

Neither Ron nor Harry heard her approach, so Hermione plopped herself noisily on the grass beside them, her school satchel dropping with the heavy thud of several textbooks and mounds of parchment.

"Hermione!" Ron had turned, startled by her arrival, but with the friendly smile that was so characteristic of him--when he was not in a snit, that is. She smiled back, trying to ignore the way his smile stretched his already wide mouth and made the corners of his eyes crinkle cheerfully.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi," Harry said; his tone of voice was perfectly normal, but she noticed that he quickly closed the book and shoved it in his bag. Then he frowned. "You're done early, aren't you?"

Hermione pulled her knees up, wrapping both arms around them and resting her chin on top. "Yes," she sighed. "I was an idiot, and I made him angry."

"Ha!" Harry said. "I knew it. I _knew_ he'd just be a git and not teach you anything, even though it could help the Order. You know," he said, his voice rising excitedly, "this might prove his loyalty isn't to Dumbledore after all; for all we know, he could even be helping Malfoy with whatever it is he's up to!"

Hermione rolled her eyes. Harry had been on about Draco Malfoy since before term started, and while she had to admit that Malfoy's foray into Borgin and Burkes was suspicious, she wasn't convinced that he was the Supreme Evil that Harry was making him out to be.

"For your information," she said, "Professor Snape is still going to be teaching me. We have another lesson planned for two days from now."

Harry gaped at her, then shut his mouth with a small pop. "Oh." He looked sideways at her. "What'd you do to make him mad?"

She groaned. "I don't want to talk about it. But you were right about one thing: I'm pretty sure he really does hate me."

Ron had lain down on the grass, folding his hands like a pillow behind his head, and was looking up a the tree branches above them. "Snape hates everyone," he said dismissively. "And I figure the feeling's mutual." He cut his eyes at Harry. "But mate, I reckon if the Git's willing to teach her Occlumency, we should let her learn and not dog her about it anymore."

Harry looked mutinous, but kept his mouth closed, for once, and out of gratitude Hermione decided not to bother him about the Half-Blood Prince's Potions book, as she had been planning to.

Instead, she looked at him thoughtfully. "What exactly happened in your Occlumency lessons with him?" she asked.

Harry looked uncomfortable. "I told you--"

"You've told us some," she interrupted, "but I think if I really understood, maybe I'd know why he got so. . . well, so scary today."

"Scary?" Ron propped himself up on his elbows and looked at her. "Hermione, what'd he do?"

She waved a hand at him to indicate that it was no big deal, though privately she was pleased by the protective note in his voice. "Oh, he shouted at me. Nothing unusual. It was just. . . I don't know. It was sort of like what I said flipped a switch--" Unconsciously, she often found herself falling back on Muggle metaphors. "--and where for the first bit he'd just been unfriendly, he was suddenly furious. And it all happened in the space of about a second, I think."

"What'd you say, then?" Ron asked.

Hermione sighed. "I asked him to teach me Legilimency in addition to Occlumency."

Ron snorted. "Only you'd ask for two extra lessons from Snape in the first week of term."

She punched him lightly on the arm. "And you ought to be grateful! Someone's got to learn these things." She turned back to Harry. "So?"

He looked at her resentfully for a moment, and she felt suddenly taken aback by the anger that twisted his face into something unfamiliar. Then, as abruptly as it had arrived, it was gone, leaving only her friend Harry looking at her apprehensively.

"Well, you know how he kept pushing at me, shouting at me to close my mind?" Hermione and Ron both nodded. "It just made everything worse--I still can't figure how he expected me to be able to become emotionless with _him_ belittling me at every turn. . ."

Hermione pursed her lips, barely restraining herself from parroting Snape's comment that if Harry couldn't even keep him out, how could he expect to keep Voldemort out when and if the time for that came? It was suddenly, astoundingly clear to her that this was Snape's intention all along--not merely in Harry's Occlumency lessons, but in every lesson he taught them--to push them to the limits of their patience and abilities, making their experience difficult enough that when the time came to be tested outside of the relative comfort and safety of Hogwarts' classrooms, they would have a fighting chance of doing well under pressure. After successfully brewing a potion with Snape being. . . well, _Snape_. . . directly behind you the entire time, or throwing up a perfect Shield Charm while he insulted you from the front of the Defense room, she realized that when they did have to face real Death Eaters again, they just might be able to do it without passing out from fright.

Of course, Harry had managed, through his leading of Dumbledore's Army, to get them to--all right, maybe not do spectacularly, but at least not faint or die--in the Department of Mysteries a few month ago, but Harry was a _nice_, if overly sensitive, boy, whereas no one could ever accuse Snape of being nice. So Harry's strategy of actually coaching them gently through their Defense lessons, and praising them whenever they got something right, just wouldn't be a teaching method Snape would ever consider.

Thinking about the fight at the Department of Mysteries, Hermione unconsciously rubbed her palm across the scar that bisected her right collarbone and sliced its way across her chest, edging its way across the lower half of her left breast, and ending just short of her navel. She hadn't shown the scar to anyone but Ginny, who had been sweet and sympathetic and at least hadn't appeared repulsed. Madam Pomfrey had, of course, healed her, and she had minimized the ugliness of the scar as best she could. Hermione's parents hadn't known a thing; she had foregone wearing tank tops around them all summer, opting instead for crew-neck T-shirts. After years of avoiding discussions of some of her more dangerous exploits at Hogwarts, both in letters home and in person during the holidays, it seemed likely that a nasty scene could arise should they discover that not only had she and her friends broken into a government building, but that they had been fighting with megalomaniacal witches and wizards, _and_ that she had very nearly been fatally wounded in the process.

Still pressing her hand against her scar, which was, at the moment, thankfully hidden under her robes, Hermione cocked her head in Harry's direction, realizing guiltily that she had missed part of what he was saying.

". . . and of course he kept insulting my dad," Harry said. He was yanking at some tufts of grass, a lock of his unruly hair falling like a short, dark curtain over his forehead, its shadow hiding his eyes. "And he kept seeing things I didn't want him to see. I don't know if you really get that," he said, looking her full in the face all of a sudden. "Do you? Snape'll be able to see _everything_, whatever he wants. I mean, I know you'll probably learn better than I ever did, but by the time you do, he'll know all of your secrets. Like who you. . . er. . . like--" He was carefully not looking at Ron, and Hermione suddenly felt her cheeks heat up. Had she really been that transparent? "--and that you stole from his stores second year."

"I do understand that," she said, happy that her voice came out calmly, despite the warmth still suffusing her cheeks. There was a splash from the direction of the lake; she, Harry, and Ron turned to watch the giant squid waving his tentacles in the last bit of sunlight left in the day. "But," she continued, not looking away from the sight of those enormous, powerful limbs gleaming faintly above the water, "like I said, I'm hoping Professor Snape and I can come to some polite agreement about all of that." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ron and Harry turn toward each other with faintly amused expressions, but she ignored them.

"Was there anything else?" she asked instead. "From your lessons, I mean?"

Harry exhaled loudly. He was looking at the lake again, arms cradling his calves and his chin resting on his knees. "I just got so frustrated," he said finally. "I couldn't do it, and then he--he saw this memory that was really private, and I got so mad. . . I stopped him, but. . . well, not the way he wanted me to, I used _Protego_ and I saw _his_ memories. It was the weirdest thing--I could see all sorts of things, and he was so surprised that he didn't stop me right away. His parents fighting, and. . ." He trailed off briefly, his face taking on a sort of closed quality that made Hermione immediately suspicious of whatever it was he was about to say next.

"I, er, saw him being bullied. Here, you know, at school. He was. . . it was the Marauders. They were awful to him." He looked at her and at Ron, but his eyes were unfocused, as if he wasn't seeing his friends but the memory he was describing. "It was mostly my dad and Sirius. They taunted him in front of a bunch of other kids, and then they hoisted him up. . . Asked who wanted to see his underwear."

Hermione's eyes widened. Beside her, Ron snorted with mirth.

"What I wouldn't give to see Snape upended and at someone else's mercy for a change," he said, his eyes shining with the thought.

"Stop it, Ron!" Hermione said. She felt oddly sick with the image her mind had conjured from Harry's description: their professor, fully-grown as he was now (it was odd to think of him having been a teenager; she believed that he had, of course, but picturing it was something else entirely), dangling from an invisible tether and being alternately tormented with verbal jeers and magical hexes by Sirius, appearing as mad as he had when he first escaped from Azkaban, and someone who looked a lot like Harry. She swallowed, hard, knowing now why Snape didn't want her learning Legilimency: what she saw could fatally puncture the untouchable, almost inhuman persona he had adopted.

She glanced out of the corner of her eye at the Half-Blood Prince's textbook, a corner of which was sticking out of Harry's satchel. Harry was only good with the subtleties involved in a lot of their classes when he truly wanted to be--such as in Defense. Teaching him Occlumency based on theory and her own knowledge of it alone would be nearly impossible if he didn't give the lessons his all.

Harry was staring moodily out over the lake again. "Yeah, I thought I'd give anything to see that, too," he said suddenly, not looking at Ron. "But it wasn't as satisfying as it should've been."

. . . . .

Albus Flooed through to Severus's sitting room that night without so much as a Floo-call beforehand to announce his impending arrival. Severus had been sitting at his desk leafing through an old Potions journal that he distinctly remembered as having contained a long article about potions that neutralized degenerative curses. A fat candle burned on the desk beside him--in the last few years, his eyesight had worsened slightly, and the light from the wall sconces was no longer enough to allow him comfortable night-time reading--and he had his quill poised above a blank sheet of parchment, ready to take notes the minute he found something worth noting.

He was very definitely not thinking about his aborted lesson with Miss Granger.

The whoosh of green flames from the fireplace alerted him to Dumbledore's arrival and he put down the unused quill and took off his glasses, setting them to one side. The older wizard was brushing ash off of his silvery robes and onto the threadbare rug in front of the hearth. Then he Vanished the mess and turned to look at Severus with a faint smile.

"Good evening, my boy," he said genially, as though Severus had invited him in for a nightcap or a game of chess.

"Headmaster." Severus inclined his head, determined not to allow his irritation to show. He knew what this was about.

But after sitting down in one of the armchairs facing the fireplace, the Headmaster surprised him by raising his blackened hand and gazing at it for a moment. "I do believe the curse has already advanced," he said conversationally.

Severus was seized by a sudden pain in his chest. Without conscious thought, he was up and out of his seat and kneeling beside Dumbledore, holding the damaged limb in both his hands. He pushed up the sleeve of Dumbledore's robe. Yes, the curse had advanced; Dumbledore's wrist was black as well, and the faintest tinge of grey was creeping up toward his forearm. It was truly gruesome, though Severus had at least grown accustomed to the sight in the weeks since Albus attempted to break the cursed ring. The fingers of that hand were curling in on themselves, the thin, brittle flesh twisted as if by a painful burn.

"Albus," Severus said hoarsely.

Dumbledore smiled a little sadly. "I thought I should show you before you noticed it yourself at an inopportune time."

Severus rose unsteadily, and took the seat across from him. "I am researching a cure," he said, letting his hair fall forward to shield his face from Dumbledore's knowing eyes. "Before you came in, I had just remembered an article I read some years ago that might be of some help--"

"No."

Severus closed his eyes briefly, then opened them and met Dumbledore's.

"No," Dumbledore said again. "There is nothing you can do, Severus. We both know this--you told me yourself that I would be dead within a year." He leaned back and gazed into the fire, clasping both hands across his stomach. "And I need you to stop wasting time trying to find a solution. We already know what the solution is." He sighed. "I confess I have no particular wish to die, but at least my death will be useful."

_Useful_. Severus felt his face twist bitterly as he fought the urge to scream. At least Dumbledore was not such a hypocrite as to exempt himself from his lifelong belief that a person's worth was entirely dependent upon his _usefulness_. It was no wonder that the old man played his hand so close to his chest; if no one else possessed the knowledge he did, then he could never fail to be the most powerful, the most useful, of all.

"Yes." There was nothing else to say. Dumbledore's death would be immensely useful, after all: in goading Potter to action; in cementing the Dark Lord's belief that Severus was truly loyal. In saving Draco's soul from being rent in two.

_And my soul, Dumbledore? Mine?_

Albus had never adequately answered his question, and the truth was, Severus himself did not know how badly killing his. . . mentor, protector, teacher, colleague. . . owner, jailor, tormentor. . . sometime-adversary, sometime-friend. . . would affect the state of his soul. He felt ill with the thought of it, but also so angry that he could barely look at the Headmaster these days, for fear that his fury would be obvious to the rest of the staff.

Dumbledore's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Tom has not called you at all, since term started?"

Severus shook his head. "No," he said, pausing uneasily. The Dark Lord usually Summoned him at night on the first day back, after his Head of House speech was completed and his Slytherins were either tucked away in bed or lounging around the common room. But several days into this term, his Mark was still quiescent. "As you know, he was not entirely pleased with me for making an Unbreakable Vow without consulting him first. Nor with Bellatrix and Narcissa, for asking it of me."

Dumbledore smiled benignly. "Of course not. I've little doubt that you were the logical person to kill me, assuming young Malfoy proved incapable, in Voldemort's mind, just as you were in mine. But Tom likes to be in complete control; having three of his followers make so important a decision without his say-so would naturally be alarming. I'm certain that he will commend you for it in the end, however."

"Mmmph." Severus shoved his hair moodily out of his eyes.

"Well. I suppose that is that." Dumbledore was looking at him with some concern. "I do appreciate what you are doing for me, for the Light, Severus." He glanced down at his hand thoughtfully, ignoring Severus's glare. "It doesn't hurt, at least," he said, and stood abruptly, shaking out his sleeves so that his arms, wrists, and most of his hands were covered once more.

Severus stood as well. "Goodnight, Albus," he said, in a tone of obvious dismissal.

But Dumbledore paused before picking up the box of Floo powder that was sitting on the mantle. "Oh," he said, too casually, "how did Miss Granger do in her first lesson?"

Severus gritted his teeth. "Adequately."

The Headmaster moved toward him. "May I?" he asked pleasantly, removing his spectacles. Severus felt his jaw clench in response, but he nodded, meeting Dumbledore's piercing blue eyes with a feeling like physical pain. He held nothing back, though he strove to bring the memories of a few hours before to the forefront of his mind, so as to make the invasion as short as possible. Images rose before him, superimposing themselves in quick flashes over the steadier image of Dumbledore's wrinkled countenance: of Miss Granger's hand in the air; of himself, moving restlessly about the room as he tried to explain the intricacies of Occlumency; of her bright brown eyes shining as she declared her desire to learn Legilimency; and finally, of her racing from the room, and Severus himself falling back into his chair.

Dumbledore pulled out of his mind gently. "Interesting." He ran his good hand through the strands of his beard. "I must admit, I am no more eager than you are to have so young a person learn to Legilimize. . . In fact, I would never have suggested it. . ."

"I am aware of that, Albus." Severus didn't try to hide the bitterness in his voice. After his return to the Light, as Dumbledore insisted on calling the side of the Order, the Headmaster had taught him Occlumency, but had refused to teach him Legilimency on the grounds that it was unnecessary. Severus had heard the unspoken truth behind those words: Dumbledore did not fully trust him.

The Dark Lord, however, thought Legilimency was an immensely useful skill for his Hogwarts spy to possess, and had instructed Severus in it himself in the weeks before his first defeat, providing a number of Muggle subjects upon whom Severus could test his skills. Albus had not, of course, been pleased to learn of this.

But now Dumbledore was tapping his front teeth with the tip of one finger, an irritating habit that set Severus's own teeth on edge. "We haven't much time," he said. "As you are well aware. Harry _must_ learn to close his mind to Voldemort's intrusions. I worry that he is. . . resistant to the idea."

"Pig-headed, more like," Severus muttered, eyeing Dumbledore warily.

Dumbledore shook his head. "Power is a great motivator," he said mildly. "Particularly for a teenage boy who cannot, as yet, do much to control the events in his life--as you know from experience." Blue eyes twinkled at Severus over half-moon spectacles. "Harry feels like he has some insight into what is going on around him when he has the connection to Voldemort's mind. And if he does not try his best, during his lessons with Miss Granger, I fear all of _your_ hard work will come to naught."

Severus stood straighter, looking down his nose at the Headmaster. He folded his arms across his chest.

Dumbledore patted him on the forearm. "I believe Harry will be far more apt to learn properly if his. . . teacher. . . has the ability to test his shields for herself." He picked up the box of Floo powder, pinching a bit of it between his fingers. "I'm afraid I haven't the time to indulge either my usual caution or your usual reservedness, Severus."

He turned to fireplace, calling out, "The Headmaster's office!" gaily, and, in a whoosh of green flames, vanished.

. . . . .

It was with no small amount of trepidation that Hermione faced Snape in his classroom two nights later.

The room was dark, as usual, when she entered, lit only by the unsteady light of the torches lining the walls. Professor Snape was standing near the front of the room beside a an illustration of a particularly nasty-looking curse. The torch behind him threw his harsh features into sharp relief and she hesitated in the doorway. He looked. . . scary, all black but for his collar and cuffs, hands and face. He still wore his teaching robes over his usual frock coat and trousers, and as he was standing with his hands on his narrow hips, elbows poking out to each side, the robes flared around him in a exceptionally dramatic fashion. His pale, narrow face was set in its usual scowl, framed on either side by lank curtains of black hair.

"Good--good evening, Professor," she said, grimacing when she heard how her voice shook.

"Are you going to stand in the doorway all night, Miss Granger? I have any number of things I would rather be doing right now, if you've changed your mind. . ." Snape let his voice trail off, raising an eyebrow in question.

"No, sir." Hermione shrugged out of her satchel and placed it carefully on the floor, then took three large steps forward, placing her at the center of the room.

Snape still hadn't moved except to take his wand out of his sleeve and hold it up to the dim torchlight as if for inspection. Watching him covertly, Hermione had a hard time reconciling what she saw--a strong, cold, often cruel man--with what Harry had described him as being when he was no older than she was now. Try as she might, when faced with his current reality, she could not conjure the image that had come to her so easily by the lake the other day, and which had kept her from sleep for several nights. She could not ever imagine this man being bullied.

She glanced at him again, but this time he was staring directly at her, a strangely triumphant expression on his thin face. Before she could so much as blink, his wand was pointed at her.

"_Legilimens_!" he shouted.

Hermione had the dizzying sensation of being hurtled backward through the thoughts she had just been having. She could still see Snape standing a few feet away from her--couldn't look away, in fact--but she could also see him as she had only a moment ago, with the torchlight creating a frightening interplay of shadows across his face, deepening the hollows under his cheekbones, the dark lines bracketing his narrow lips, making his eyes appear to be entirely hidden in pockets of darkness under the heavy forehead and black brows. She felt the emotions, thought the thoughts, that had been going through her mind. Before her, Snape's eyes narrowed, and then he was pushing farther back; she saw disconnected images of the last few days--herself laughing with Ginny at a joke the redhead made, bent over her homework in the library, watching Ron as he beat Harry at chess, his freckled face deeply contemplative as he studied the board. She felt, all over again, her heart speed up as she watched him, the attraction to him that she had begun to notice in their third year, overlaid by the older, steadier fondness that she felt for both boys. Then she was beside the lake again, and suddenly she could see clearly the image she'd had of Harry's description of his Occlumency lessons. Horrified, she tried to break eye contact, but it was no use, and she knew that Snape saw it all: himself, middle-aged, dangling upside-down while Harry and Sirius shot hexes and shouted insults at him from below.


	6. The past, the future

Disclaimer: None of it is mine, more's the pity.

. . . . .

Severus recoiled from what he saw in Miss Granger's mind so thoroughly that he had torn himself out of her head before the decision to do so was consciously made. He felt, rather than heard, her cry out in pain. And then they were both standing again in the Defense classroom, not looking at one another.

He blinked, opening and closing his fingers around the familiar stem of his wand. He was breathing too fast, his heart pounding painfully in his chest. She was turned slightly away from him, her expression hidden behind the bushy mass of her ridiculous hair, but he could hear the shuddering sound of her own breath. She sounded. . . _bloody hell_. . . as if she was trying very hard not to cry. The realization made Severus more furious than before.

"So," he said harshly, "as I suspected, Potter couldn't keep his mouth shut."

The girl looked at him then, and as he had thought, there were tears swimming in her eyes. "I asked him" she protested. "I. . . Don't blame Harry, Professor. I wanted to know what happened in his lessons, so I. . . so I'd know what to expect in mine."

Severus began to circle closer to her, forcing her to turn in order to keep him in her line of sight. "Damn your Gryffindor curiosity," he muttered. Though he had deliberately slowed his breathing and heart rate, he could still feel two warm spots high on his cheeks.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. She blinked and two fat tears rolled down her cheeks; she swiped them away with the back of her hand.

"Don't snivel!" he snapped. He stopped moving when he reached his desk, leaning the backs of his legs against it for support. _Fuck_. He closed his eyes briefly, but immediately was visited by the sight of his adult self dangling as helplessly as his teenage self once had, and his eyes snapped open again.

Miss Granger was watching him, her face unusually pinched. "I didn't mean to pry into your private life by asking him, sir," she said. "And I _am_ sorry." She attempted a smile, but with her eyebrows pinched together it looked more like a grimace. "I doubt it helps much, but you've already witnessed one of my most embarrassing moments."

Severus frowned at her in confusion, unable to imagine which of the images he had just witnessed she would consider even remotely embarrassing. He sneered at her to cover his confusion. "Indeed? So now we're even, is that it? May I remind you, Miss Granger, that I am your instructor; your humiliations mean little to me."

Her eyes widened. "No! I just meant. . . I just meant that I. . ." She inhaled sharply. "I meant no disrespect," she said finally, squeezing her eyes shut and pressing the tips of her fingers against her temples.

Severus stared at her for a moment, recalling his sharp retreat from her mind with something suspiciously like contrition. Dumbledore, for all his faults, always attempted to be gentle when he probed anyone's mind. The Dark Lord, by contrast, reveled in being brutal, shoving his way past any memories that did not interest him, clawing his way in and out with a roughness that actually caused lingering physical pain. For all his anger and mortification, Severus had not intended to hurt the girl. His shoulders hunched slightly in self-loathing.

"Miss Granger," he said sharply. She looked up at him, her fingers stilling on her temples. "Come here." He Summoned a pain-relieving potion from his desk, uncorked it, then paused.

"Do pain potions work as intended with you?" he asked.

"What?" She looked at him quizzically, and he gritted his teeth, realizing that he had carelessly managed to give away more than necessary with his question.

The girl was edging forward, peering at the flask he held. "I think they do," she said. "Why wouldn't they--don't they for you?" A slight pause, and she belatedly added a mumbled, "Sir."

He quelled her with a glare. "That," he said crisply, "is an impertinent question, and none of your concern. Here." He handed her the flask. "Drink it all; it should take away the headache."

She took the potion from him, brushing his fingers lightly as she did so. He gave a small start of surprise, narrowing his eyes at her. Few people, particularly students, ever touched him without an ulterior motive of some kind. But she wasn't looking at him; she was tipping her head back, swallowing the potion in large, rather undignified gulps. Severus rubbed his fingers together, trying to rid himself of the feel of her brief touch; it didn't work.

_Pathetic_.

When she had finished the potion, Miss Granger handed the flask back to him, dabbing at her mouth with her back of her wrist. "Thank you, sir," she said tightly, meeting his eyes with no apparent guile, only a wariness that had not been there before he Legilimized her.

He set the flask on the desktop. "Better?" he growled.

She nodded.

"Very well," he said. "That was a pathetic attempt at stopping my intrusion. We shall try again." She frowned, but didn't argue; he looked at her closely, but could sense no real anger from her. _Odd_. Potter would most likely have tried to hex him for probing his mind with no warning, not to mention for insulting him, deserved or not.

She began to tentatively raise her hand, then snatched it back down when he glared at her. "Ah. . . I just wanted to ask, sir. . . Does Legilimency always work like that--do you always see the most recent memories first? Do you have to search through everything to see something farther back?"

Of course she had bloody questions. Severus shook his head impatiently. "Every person's mind is different," he said. "Just now, I was not trying to see a specific memory; I was simply gauging whether you already had any natural defenses. It is natural, therefore, that what I saw was whatever had most recently been in your thoughts." He felt his cheeks flush again, but kept his face determinedly blank.

Her face was still screwed up in thought. "But--why did they go backwards chronologically?"

He sighed. "Miss Granger, I can't answer that. It is _your_ mind, after all. In my. . . experience. . . performing Legilimency, however, I have found that thoughts and memories are often linked to one another with some semblance of order, be it chronologically or by a common figure, idea or event. You were entirely unprepared just now; I imagine that, were your mind less. . . shocked. . . by my intrusion, the images I saw might have been strung together in a more complicated manner." He allowed himself a brief smirk. "Some minds, of course, are actually _thoroughly_ unmethodical. Mr. Potter's, for instance, is a dreadful mess."

The girl huffed indignantly at that, but wisely kept her mouth shut.

"Now. If that is all. . .?"

She nodded, looking apprehensive.

"You recall, I hope, that the last time we. . . met. . . I described to you the most unsophisticated version of Occlumency."

"Yes, sir," she said, a smile, of all things, breaking out on her face. "Rudimentary Occlumency involves using visualization to stop an intruder from seeing your thoughts."

Severus flapped a hand at her. "You are not a parrot, Miss Granger. A simple 'yes' or 'no' would have sufficed." She flushed. "Nevertheless, you are correct: visualization is a crude, but effective, way of blocking a Legilimens. It has the disadvantage, however, of displaying once and for all the fact that you are an Occlumens. We will start with the basics, but I expect you to advance to more subtle forms, such as deflection."

"Slytherin forms," she murmured with a faint smile.

He quirked an eyebrow. "Indeed. Now, the most effective shields are often the simplest. A wall, for example, or the surface of a lake."

Miss Granger nodded, but Severus sensed that she did not entirely agree with him. _Let her try what she will_, he thought. _Insufferable girl_. "Choose a shield, and tell me when you believe you have it in place."

Again, she looked hesitant. "Will--will it hurt as much as last time?" she asked suddenly. Severus froze, and she hurried on. "Not that I mind, it wasn't too bad, but I. . . I didn't realize that it would hurt, and I just. . . want to prepare myself."

"No," he said finally. "It should not hurt at all." She looked surprised, and he turned away. "I. . . regret. . . that my exit from your mind was so abrupt as to cause you pain. It should not have been so. Legilimency can be a painful experience, but it does not have to be. I was. . . surprised by the memory--the image--that I saw, and I withdrew with less care than I should have."

She was staring at him thoughtfully, and for a moment he feared she was going to say more about that image, but instead she said merely, "Oh."

Relieved, Severus faced her again. "Look at me," he instructed. "Eye contact is necessary for proper Legilimency, and it will be easier for you. . . to start with. . . if we are looking directly at one another. Concentrate on your visualization, and tell me when you are ready."

Obedient to a fault, she turned to face him, meeting his eyes trustingly, as if he had not just hurt her.

Severus kept his expression neutral and looked back.

. . . . .

Hermione felt acutely uncomfortable standing so close to her professor. This close, she could see every pore on the end of his prodigiously large nose, could count the--age? frown? surely not laugh--lines on his face. The lines about his eyes were very fine, but between his brows and on either side of his narrow lips they were much deeper, as if he never stopped scowling, never relaxed. His hair was greasy, particularly near the hairline; the skin of his forehead, too, appeared slightly oily. Hermione wondered briefly whether it was his genes or a lack of proper hygiene that caused the oil, then cursed herself for a fool, realizing that in a moment he would have the potential to know everything that she was thinking.

"Are you ready, Miss Granger?" he asked.

She gulped and immediately forced herself to focus on the image of her parents' garden that had worked so well for her the other night.

"Yes," she said, and seconds later he was in her mind, in the garden, and he was blasting the heads off of the rosebushes with his wand just as he had to the real roses on the castle grounds on the night of the Yule Ball.

For a moment, Hermione watched him destroy the garden in disbelief, then she hurriedly focussed her mind on re-growing the flowers. As fast as he could ruin them, she imagined them coming back, their thick vines and thorny branches creating a sort of wall between the garden and the rest of her mind. She felt a second of pride, which disappeared immediately when he aimed a particularly strong hex at one of the bushes, destroying it completely. In that one moment of inattention, Hermione felt the image of the garden slipping away; the next thing she knew, Snape was rifling through her memories, and she had no idea how to stop him.

Again, she felt the disorienting sensation of seeing two separate things at once. Without her visualization to distract her, she saw again the consuming blackness of her professor's eyes, narrowed in concentration. Superimposed over him in a strange, filmy-looking layer, she saw herself as a toddler, trying to keep up with her father on her unsteady little legs as he circled the garden with his pruning shears; herself at eleven, sitting on the garden's weathered bench with her legs swinging back and forth from repressed excitement as Professor McGonagall handed her Hogwarts letter to her bewildered parents; sitting alone at the Gryffindor table at dinner during her first year, a book open before her as she tried to pretend she was alone by choice; holding Harry tightly before the first task of the Tri-Wizard tournament. The memories began flashing by faster and faster: doing her homework; panicked in her third year as she tried to keep up with her enormous course load; laughing with Harry and Ron in the Three Broomsticks; cowering in a bathroom stall, tears wet on her cheeks and panic making her mouth taste faintly metallic; feeling a surge of joy as she solved Snape's logic puzzle; setting Snape's robes on fire.

Hermione began to feel panicked as she realized that she had lost all control of the situation. Now it was another memory of a few days before with the boys at the lake: without really paying attention to which part of that hour Snape was viewing, without actually really thinking, she raised her wand--

--and the next thing she knew, Snape was out of her mind, stumbling back across the classroom's floor, one arm clutched tightly against his ribs. The sudden removal was not nearly so painful as last time, but it was not, after all, painless; Hermione seemed to feel his departure at some cellular level, as though something had been pushed rather too roughly aside to make way for her Professor's exit.

But then again, she had ended up casting a non-verbal Stinging Hex at him to get him out, so she supposed now was not the time to quibble about how gently or ungently he chose to leave.

"Professor?" Hermione took a step forward. Snape was standing upright again, turning his left arm subtly this way and that and looking at her with the oddest expression on his face. "Sir? I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that. . ."

"No," Snape said. "You shouldn't. You were, I believe, supposed to be keeping me out through visualization. However. . ." His lips quirked up in an approximation of an almost-nice smile, and Hermione felt her own mouth fall open in surprise. "The hex was. . . crude, but effective." He glanced at her, the smile leaving his face so quickly that it might never have been there at all. "Close your mouth, Miss Granger, you'll let the pixies in."

Hermione obeyed. Snape was unbuttoning the left sleeves of his frock coat and the shirt underneath, rolling them neatly to his elbow and hissing slightly with pain as the fabric brushed against his raw skin. She winced in sympathy; the skin of his forearm was almost translucently pale, except where her hex had left angry-looking streaks of red welts. Then he turned his arm over to examine the underside, and she couldn't hold back her gasp.

The Dark Mark was a hideous thing, and it was particularly vivid against Snape's almost colorless skin. With his hand clenched into a fist, the tendons in his arm stood out, slightly distorting the skull so that it looked--even more--sinister. The Mark would have looked like a Muggle tattoo, but something about it--Hermione didn't think it was merely her knowledge of what it did and what it symbolized--was innately _wrong_. She supposed it must be a result of the Dark magic that thrummed through it, allowing it to act as a Portkey to the Darkest wizard of the age.

Snape had looked up sharply at her gasp, flinching slightly when she looked back at him. _He expects me to be disgusted_, she realized, her throat clogging momentarily. He did not attempt to cover the Mark, however; nor did he shout at or verbally abuse her, as Hermione half-expected he would. Instead he continued looking at her almost defiantly for a moment, before something seemed to _fold_ inside of him, and he went almost limp, his hand unclenching, his shoulders slumping. Turning away from her, he wordlessly Summoned some sort of balm and began smoothing it onto his arm with decidedly aggressive strokes that appeared to cause him more pain.

Hermione chewed at her bottom lip to stop herself from offering her help. If he had been Harry or Ron--or anyone but Snape, really--she would have plucked the jar of balm out his hands and begun putting it on his injuries without so much as a second thought. But Snape was entirely unapproachable, and she sensed that he did not care to be touched--if he did, his buttoned-up-to-here armor certainly gave off the wrong impression!

When his arm was liberally covered and slightly greasy-looking from the balm, Snape flicked a glance at Hermione and moved to sit behind his desk. He seemed to draw strength from the change of locale, Hermione noted with interest, his spine straightening and his expression growing cold and Professor Snape-ish once more. He did not ask her to sit, and she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, feeling uncomfortably exposed.

"That was passable for a first attempt," he said, drumming his fingers against the top of his desk. "At least at the beginning." He gave her a hard look.

Hermione raised her eyebrows, surprised. "Thank you, sir," she said.

"While your visualization is. . . unorthodox, it may have the added benefit of almost appearing to be a memory in and of itself. Obviously, that effect won't last long, not as soon as the Legilimens tries to get beyond the garden 'memory' to find another, but still. . ." He tapped one finger thoughtfully against his upper lip.

Hermione kept quiet, uncertain what had caused this almost. . . cordial. . . change in her professor, but not wanting to do anything to make him revert to his usual, sneering self. He hadn't even castigated her for hexing him.

"What kind of. . . accord. . . were you thinking of, Miss Granger?"

She blinked. ". . . Sir?"

His eyes narrowed with impatience. "Accord, you stupid girl! When you discussed it with Potter and Weasley, what did you specifically have in mind?"

Nice-Snape was gone, then. Hermione swallowed, trying to buy some time. What was he. . .? Her brain snagged then on the edge of the memory Snape had been viewing when she cast the hex. _Oh_. She had been telling Ron and Harry that she hoped she and Snape could come to a "polite agreement" about how invasive he was during their lessons. And Harry and Ron had laughed at her.

"I--I suppose I hadn't thought out all the particulars," she said slowly. Snape shifted restlessly in his chair, exhaling his displeasure through his nose. "I guess I just. . . I hoped that we could agree that some things are. . . off-limits? Or barring that, that you could maybe. . . not take points for things you learn in these lessons?" She stood straighter, meeting her professor's unreadable gaze. "This is for the good of the Order, after all, sir."

At that, he sneered. "The good of the Order, Miss Granger? You cannot tell me that you wanted to learn Occlumency purely out of altruism. You wanted to learn; you could not bear the idea that Potter"--he practically spat the name-- "had been offered knowledge that you hadn't." He stood, his chair scraping loudly back against the floor. "I have spent more time than you have been alive working _for the good of the Order_. Spare me your holier-than-thou speeches."

Hermione had backed away a step from his anger. Now she moved forward again, guilt clenching in her stomach.

"I'm sorry, Professor," she said quietly. "I. . . You're right."

Snape shot her the same strange look that he had after he had bared his arm. "Very well," he muttered. His jaw tightened. "The Headmaster thinks it would be beneficial if I expanded our lessons to include Legilimency as well as Occlumency." He let his statement hang in the air for a moment, ignoring her gobsmacked expression. "Therefore. . ." He paused delicately, his gaze settling somewhere behind her right shoulder. "Seeing as. . ."

Hermione watched as Snape struggled to get his face under control. Fury once again warred with some other emotion that she couldn't begin to identify; this time, however, she sensed that the fury was not directed entirely at her.

"As a certain amount of--" Snape seemed to choke briefly, "--intimacy is unavoidable, therefore, I believe that we can come to a suitable arrangement. You have obviously not done enough research into the field of Legilimency to know that it is close to impossible to ensure that specific memories remain. . . sacred."

Hermione glared at him, and Snape appeared to grow more sure of himself.

"We can, however, agree not to reveal anything that we learn about one another as a result of these lessons to _anyone_," he said fiercely. "The consequences of doing so will be. . . distasteful."

"Yes, sir," she said, feeling slightly breathless. Her mind refused to come to terms with what he was saying. He was going to teach her Legilimency? After what happened the other day? "I--may I ask, sir--why does Professor Dumbledore think I should learn Legilimency?"

Snape drew his mouth up into a moue of annoyance. "Even he doesn't think Potter capable of learning to Occlude through theory alone." He glared at her. "I am doing this, Miss Granger, _purely_ for the 'good of the Order.'"

Chastened, Hermione fell silent.

"Now." Snape stood and strode briskly away from his desk. His back to her, he appeared to be studying an illustration of the Cruciatus Curse. "I expect you to practice your visualization every night before going to sleep. Keep it steady, and leave emotion out of it. Learn to close off that part of yourself that responds like a Gryffindor. We will meet again on Monday. Twice a week for these lessons is more than enough." Still without looking at her, he waved a hand in dismissal. "Now go. I'm not giving you a note, so get back to your common room before curfew."

Her mind still whirring, Hermione turned and put her hand on the doorknob. "Good night, Professor," she said, and opened the door.

"Miss Granger!"

Hermione turned just outside the doorway to find Snape regarding her oddly.

"Yes, sir?"

His mouth worked silently for a moment, as if deciding how to phrase a question or trying to smother a smile. Knowing Professor Snape, Hermione suspected the former. "_You_ set my robes on fire?" he asked finally.

_Bugger_. "I--er--that is--" She gulped. "Yes."

He was standing again as he had been at the beginning of the lesson, his face shadowed, his hands on his hips.

"Ten points from Gryffindor," he said, then waved his wand, closing the door in her face.

. . . . .

Over the next few days, Hermione practiced visualizing the garden and making the roses climb to create a barrier whenever she had a spare minute: in bed, between classes, at meals, in the common room while Harry and Ron struggled to finish homework essays that she had finished days before. Keeping stray thoughts and emotions at bay while holding the image steady was most challenging in the common room, where the din of students talking and laughing kept intruding.

Saturday morning found her down in the Great Hall with Harry and a rather green-looking Ron, who was poking at his food with a very uncharacteristic lack of appetite. Spooning porridge into her mouth, she nodded discretely in Ron's direction, raising an inquisitive eyebrow at Ginny, who was sitting across the table, cozily nestled against Dean Thomas.

"Quidditch trials," Ginny mouthed.

Hermione nodded, feeling slightly guilty. Between the first week of classes and her bizarre lesson with Snape, she hadn't paid much attention to the boys' chatter, and had forgotten that Harry was holding trials that day. Though Quidditch had never been her thing, she knew that Ron was only a marginally good Keeper--even she couldn't miss the nasty chorus of "Weasley is our king" that the Slytherins had broken into whenever Ron chanced by them in the halls the year before.

"All right, Ron?" she asked quietly, leaning toward him. On Ron's other side, Harry was watching him closely as well, a faint frown pulling the corners of his mouth down. Hermione felt a surge of sympathy; she knew that Harry didn't want to kick Ron off the team, but that he would have to if someone else did better in the trials.

Ron nodded unconvincingly. "Sure."

She was distracted by the flurry of post owls overhead, and she opened the _Daily Prophet_ that landed on the table in front of her, narrowly missing her porridge, with the same apprehensiveness that she felt every morning.

_"Anyone we know dead?" asked Ron in a determinedly casual voice; he posed the same question every time Hermione opened her paper._

Hermione scanned the front page, the dread she had come to feel lessening a bit. The news from the Prophet had been awful so far that year; the Death Eaters were growing more and more brazen in their attacks of Muggle-borns and "Blood Traitors" like the Weasleys.

"No," she said, relieved. As if her words were a cue, Harry stood up, draining the last of his pumpkin juice in one long pull.

"I'd better get down to the pitch," he said half-heartedly. He glanced at Ron, who had stood as well, albeit less steadily than Harry.

"You coming?" Ron asked tersely, his face faintly pink.

Hermione smiled, surprised and gratified that he wanted her there. "Of course!" she said. "I'll be along in a minute."

Ron managed a weak smile in return, then hurried to follow Harry out of the Great Hall.

When Hermione arrived at the Quidditch pitch a few minutes later, it was to find Ron and a number of other hopefuls warming up, whizzing around above the stands in a blur of red and gold. Harry was firmly on the ground and bellowing at a small cluster of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs to _g__et off the pitch!_, his black hair standing on end. Hermione smothered a grin; it was good to see Harry so animated about something again.

She settled herself on one of the benches in the stands. Above her a few other Gryffindors had come out to watch the trials; she pretended not to noticed Lavender Brown a few rows above her, not wanting to be treated to a monologue on the shapeliness of this player's bum or the strength in the biceps of another's.

A large boy with a closely-clipped head of wiry hair leaned against her bench, his enormous arms folded as he watched Harry telling the Chasers to begin their trial. He gave Hermione a cursory glance when she sat down, then did a double-take, his eyes taking her in in an appreciative way that Hermione hadn't really experienced since she dated Viktor Krum in her fourth year.

"Cormac McLaggen," he said with a grin.

She smiled in return. "Hermione Granger."

"Ah, right," he said knowingly. "You're friends with Potter, right?"

Hermione nodded. McLaggen looked familiar; she knew she must have seen him around the common room, but she didn't recall having any classes with him. Then again, he might be the sort of boy to slouch at the back of the classroom, in which case she would never see him at all, as she preferred to sit near the front.

He leaned toward her conspiratorially, his eyes lingering a second too long on the front of her T-shirt. "I'm trying out for Keeper," he said, then lowered his voice a fraction. "Weasley doesn't stand a chance."

"Oh, really," she said coolly. She shifted away from him.

"Really," he agreed, rubbing his hands together. "He's rubbish. Nice chap and all, but honestly. . . At least his sister's worth watching," he added, eyeing Ginny's form as she bent over her broom. He smiled at her sideways. "Sticking around to watch the Keeper trials?"

"Yes." Hermione looked away, indignant on Ron and Ginny's behalf.

"Great!" He jumped up. "I should warm up some, and I want to tell Potter some of my ideas--maybe I'll see you after." With one last leering glance, McLaggen picked up his broom and hurried toward the center of the pitch where Harry was standing.

Hermione gave an inelegant snort and pulled a book out of her bag, not looking up again until she heard Harry call out that it was time for the Keeper trials.

She watched, feeling nervous, as Ron lined up behind McLaggen, clutching his broom in a white-knuckled grip, and her stomach lurched when she saw that McLaggen really was good, saving goals with an ease that eluded Ron. He looked down at the stands during a spare second and grinned in her direction confidently.

Hermione palmed her wand, smiling sweetly back at him.

"_Confundus_," she murmured.

. . . . .

Severus entered the Slytherin common room late on Saturday night. It looked very much as it had when he was a student; thick, Slytherin-green carpets kept the cold from seeping up through the stone floor and tapestries, rather than paintings, covered the walls, their heavy fabric keeping the warmth from the enormous fireplace in. Severus stood back in the shadows by the entrance for a moment, watching his charges. Only a few first and second years were still awake, bent over a pile of Chocolate Frog cards near the fireplace. Older students lounged in the armchairs and sofas set up in small groups around the room, some of them sipping from bottles of Butterbeer and Firewhiskey filched from who-knew-where and smuggled in past Filch's Secrecy Sensor, almost undoubtedly using some sort of mildly Dark spell. Severus hid a smile behind his hand and stepped forward into the light of the torches.

Immediately all eyes were upon him. Blaise Zabini nonverbally Vanished his bottle but the others didn't bother, Pansy Parkinson actually lifting her Butterbeer to her lips while raising a hand in greeting.

Severus nodded at her, then looked in Blaise's direction. "Twenty points to Slytherin," he said, smirking, "for putting what you learned in Defense to use under pressure." He raised a brow, his eyes roving over the room's other occupants. "The rest of you would do well to follow your house-mate's example," he drawled. "Suppose it was Professor McGonagall who came in here unexpectedly?"

There were muffled snickers from a few students.

Severus frowned then. "Where is Draco?" he asked of the room in general.

Pansy shrugged. "He said he had things to do. He and Greg and Vincent have been gone for hours."

Mentally, Severus cursed. Outwardly, he maintained his calm facade and nodded. "I shall bid you good evening, then," he said. "Kindly make certain that they--" pointing to the small group of younger students, "--make it to their beds and don't fall asleep near the fire."

Once in the hallway, he stood irresolutely for a moment. He could prowl the castle in search of his erstwhile student and those buffoons he insisted on calling friends, but it was unlikely that he would find them. He had been trying unsuccessfully to corner Draco for a week now; the boy had been present when the Dark Lord learned of the Vow, but still insisted on avoiding Severus whenever possible, ducking into and out of Defense classes, leaving the common room when Severus entered it. He had not even attended most meals; Severus assumed he must be getting some of the other Slytherins to pinch food for him.

Pinching his lips closed in frustration, Severus made his way down the hallway, unwarded his chambers, and sank into a chair beside the hearth.

_Draco. . . Draco. . ._ The boy's name repeated like a mantra inside his head. Pained, he stared unseeing into the fire. He had known Draco almost since his birth; Lucius and Narcissa had held a fete for their month-old son at Malfoy Manor, and even the Dark Lord had attended. The tow-headed child had been passed around, his round cheeks kissed by the women and his handsomeness commented on by the men. When Severus's turn came, he had held Draco gingerly, terrified that he would drop him. The baby was sleeping at that point, his grey eyes closed, pale lashes fluttering against rosy cheeks, his mouth puckered and moving faintly in a way that reminded Severus vaguely of nursing. Severus's sensitive nose had caught a whiff of some sort of sweet-smelling powder emanating from the child's skin under the long silver robes his parents had dressed him in. He was still a very young man when Draco was born, only recently out of Hogwarts and in the service of the Dark Lord, and the thought of wanting a family had not really occurred to him, particularly as had little patience for anyone and he suspected his parenting skills would resemble his father's.

And the only girl he had ever wanted to marry--the only one he had entertained any hopes at all would want to marry him--had recently married the man whose constant tormenting had made Severus's adolescence even more of a horror than his solitary childhood had been. Two weeks after Draco's birth there had been an announcement in the Prophet, that she had also borne a son.

But cautiously cradling the infant Draco, he had felt a sort of unfathomable ache in the region of his ribcage. And he had wanted nothing more in that moment, surrounded by his fellow Death Eaters with the Dark Lord himself reigning over the celebration, to tell Lily about that ache, and to ask if it was the same ache she felt when she held her own child.

Severus pressed his fingertips against his temples, willing the headache he felt starting there to disappear. Narcissa had looked radiant that night, so different from this past summer when she came to him at his house, rain-drenched and shivering, pale as death. He leaned back against the chair and closed his eyes. _Draco. . . Narcissa. . . Lily_. Behind his eyes, the image of his one-time friend formed slowly: her green eyes and creamy skin; her bright hair; the precise angle of her jaw and the straight line of her nose. She had been beautiful, as truly, classically beautiful as Narcissa, but brighter, more joyful. Even when they were small and her beauty was still blunt and childish, Severus had been silently astounded by her apparent enjoyment of his company, by the way she overlooked his worn-out clothing and too-long hair and filthy nails and shared with him her smiles and wit and humor. And at school she had remained friendly, despite the enmity between him and her other friends, in spite of knowing--for she had to know--how deeply she hurt him whenever she chose their company over his. He had come upon her kissing Potter in an alcove one afternoon, and had stumbled away, feeling as though he had been hit in the chest with a Bludger.

She had remained his friend until he grew friendly with a crowd she did not approve of. He hadn't even taken the Mark, and already she began withdrawing from him, and he made the breach his friends and his fascination with Dark Arts caused even wider when he hurled that filthy word at her. And then, not long after he stood in the ballroom at Malfoy Manor and held young Draco and wished to share his secret longing with her, he killed her, as surely as if he himself had drawn his wand and cast the Unforgivable.

_Lily. . . Gods, Lily. . . Oh, Albus. . ._

The weight of his past choices and current responsibilities was suddenly immense. How could he stop Draco if the boy wouldn't trust him? How could he kill the only man who had really trusted him since the Dark Lord's first fall? The choice to sit back and allow Draco to do as he wished, to let the Vow he had made to Narcissa kill him at last, was sorely tempting. He twisted his hands in his hair, tugging slightly and making his headache worse.

But he could not let Dumbledore die at the hands of a true Death Eater, or allow Draco to maim his soul by doing the killing himself. The helpless infant Severus had held was now a self-absorbed young man, but he agreed with Narcissa; the boy was not, by nature, a murderer.

Most of all, he could not let Lily's son die.

Unbidden, a memory from only days before surfaced: Hermione Granger, her eyes wide as she stared at the Mark he had thoughtlessly bared. Try as he might, he could discern no condemnation, no disgust, only. . . something else. Compassion was the first word that came to mind, but he dismissed it immediately. What compassion could a sixth-year Gryffindor have for the teacher who had belittled her and her friends and who bore on his person a mark that distinguished him as evil?

His chest felt tight. Severus rose from his chair only to kneel on the hearth rug, the threadbare carpet doing little to soften the impact of the cold stone floor on his knees. A sob gathered in his throat, and he tried to hold it in, but already hot, shameful tears were rolling down his cheeks, dripping off the end of his nose and the point of his chin to dampen the rug. The next sob came out as a low growl of pure, animal terror, and the next, a quiet snort, before he began sobbing in earnest, curling his back so that his forehead touched the floor, his shoulders shaking. He shut his eyes to rid himself of the exquisite torment of seeing Lily's face, but saw instead Draco's defiant glare and Narcissa's pleading gaze; Albus's steady regard and Potter's surly distrust. He was wheezing now, trying to catch his breath as the sobs came harder, curling his fingers around the edges of the rug, scraping his fingernails against the stone floor, desperate for an absolution that no one still alive could grant him.


	7. The profound lesson of reception

Disclaimer: None of it is mine, more's the pity.

. . . . .

Hermione approached Defense Against the Dark Arts on Monday with more cheerfulness than she ever had before, even when Remus Lupin, who was infinitely patient with all of his students, was teaching it. Over the past several days her first true Occlumency lesson with Snape had never been far from her mind. She had lain awake far longer than she ought to have the night before practicing her visualization and trying to quell the intellectual excitement that bubbled up every time she thought about learning not one, but two obscure branches of magic. And Professor Snape had been almost. . . friendly was going too far. Decent, maybe. He had looked at her with something other than anger and irritation, at least, and for a short moment he had seemed distinctly vulnerable, with his forearm bare and his black eyes watching her like he was just waiting for her to shriek or recoil. Even she, who had argued with the boys when they called Snape inhuman, had been surprised by his ability to show an emotion other than anger, disdain, or cold amusement.

Now, flanked on either side by Harry and Ron, she cast a timid smile toward the front of the room where Snape stood with his arms crossed. Almost immediately, her professor's face darkened.

"Detention, Miss Granger," he said.

Hermione froze in the act of pulling her Defense book out of her bag. Behind her, she heard Harry slap his palm against the top of his desk.

"What for?" he demanded. "She hasn't done anything! Class hasn't even started yet!"

"Twenty points from Gryffindor for talking back, Potter," Snape said lazily. On the other side of the classroom, Hermione heard Pansy Parkinson's shrill laugh.

Harry's face was red. "I wasn't talking back, I was just asking a question. Sir."

"I will make it thirty points and detention for you as well if you _don't. . . shut. . . up_." Snape had stepped closer to them with every carefully controlled word until he was standing beside Hermione and leaning toward Harry and Ron, his lank hair swinging forward so that his face was hidden from her, except for the tip of his hooked nose. The edge of his heavy robes brushed against Hermione's shoulder, knocking her back toward Neville, who was already leaning way out toward the aisle, as far away from Snape as he could get, his eyes focused on a blank spot on the wall as if by pretending their professor wasn't looming over them, he could avoid drawing any attention to himself. Hermione thought it would have been funny if his fear wasn't so palpable; she could smell his sweat, even over the unplaceable, but strangely familiar, scents that clung to Snape's robes.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ron put a restraining hand on Harry's shoulder. "C'mon, mate," he muttered, with an apologetic glance in Hermione's direction. "Leave it."

After a moment, Harry folded his arms, his wand still gripped tightly in one hand, and lowered himself back into his chair, glaring at Snape, but with his mouth shut.

Snape eyed him for a moment before turning his attention back to Hermione; even after mentally waxing philosophic on the subject of his humanity for several nights straight, she was ashamed to find herself reverting easily to old habits, her heart rate speeding up under his inscrutable gaze like a frightened rabbit's.

"Tonight," Snape said. "My office. Directly after dinner."

There were definite titters from the Slytherin side of the room.

Before she could make things worse by talking, he had turned around, the faintest of cruel smiles touching his lips.

"The rise of Grindelwald," he said, striding to the front of the classroom. All fidgeting and conversation stopped. "What year, and what were the effects?" He pointed his wand at Neville, who had finally straightened in his seat and relaxed the death-grip he'd had on the edge of his desk. "Mr. Longbottom?" A definite, horrible upturning at the corners of his mouth. "Enlighten us."

. . . . .

Severus was mildly amused to note that Miss Granger appeared to fume her way through the rest of the day. She stormed out of his classroom after casting a rather hurt look in his direction, Potter and Weasley hard on her heels, both imbeciles giving him the visual equivalent of _Avada Kedavra_. At dinner, he distracted himself from the banal conversation Albus and Pomona were holding ("Yes, I do believe Neville could make a fine apprentice, provided his NEWT scores are as outstanding as his OWLs were") by watching the girl covertly over the rim of his goblet. She appeared to be enduring a fair amount of both ribbing and commiseration from her classmates, most likely depending upon how many House points and risqué magazines she had taken from them since she became a prefect.

Severus left the Great Hall early to ensure that he would be in his office before Miss Granger arrived, which she did fifteen minutes later, stomping her way into the office and obviously in a fine snit.

"Good evening, Miss Granger," he said, careful to keep both his face and voice blank.

"Good evening, Professor," she returned evenly.

He was toying with his wand delicately, leaning against his desk with one hip. "I trust you have been practicing your shield?"

"Yes, sir." This time she wasn't entirely able to keep a hard edge from her voice. Severus smiled spitefully, and she fisted her robes, tension radiating up her arms and across her small shoulders.

"Then let's see how much you've learned," he said coldly. He raised his wand, and she flinched slightly when he pointed it at her.

"_Legilimens_," he hissed.

This time, though, the girl was ready, her wall of hedge roses climbing upward and a tangle of creeping roses twining outward faster than Severus could tear them down. He caught a brief surge of self-satisfaction before she managed to tuck even that away behind her wall. When he left her mind, minutes later, she was grinning unabashedly as if he was one of her idiotic friends, her mouth curling up at both corners until it looked as though her cheeks would crack with the strain of her pride.

Severus was impressed and irritated in equal measure. "Clearly," he ground out, "you have more aptitude for this than Potter."

More aptitude than he had when he was barely older than her, in fact, and Dumbledore, one of the greatest Occlumens in the world, had been his teacher.

"Or," he added thoughtfully, watching with interest as her face flushed with pleasure at his grudging praise, "perhaps you are simply working harder at it than he did."

"Both, I think," Miss Granger said honestly, then blushed brighter.

Severus laughed, a quick, staccato bark. He subsided immediately, unnerved, and tugged at the hem of his frock coat to straighten it, allowing his hair to screen his face. "Yes, well," he said. "It is unsurprising to find that you are as full of yourself as I always thought." He raised his head and saw her lighthearted expression dissipate. The sight caused a twinge of--something--just behind his sternum. He cleared his throat. "Be that as it may, your confidence is not. . . unwarranted," he admitted. "You mastered visualization more quickly than I had hoped. I expect you to continue practicing, but I am not going to waste any more time on that technique, particularly as its usefulness is so limited."

The girl was eyeing him, cautiously hopeful. "Yes, sir," she said.

He glanced at the hourglass sitting on his desk. "As it is still early, I suppose there is no harm in beginning the next phase of your training." He paused. "Unless, of course, you would prefer to muck out the Second Years' cauldrons--by hand?" He gestured vaguely in the direction of the classroom door. "By rights, I should have suspended our lesson this evening and made you serve your detention."

She frowned, opening her mouth to say something and then shutting it just as quickly.

"Ah, Miss Granger," he said mockingly. "You have questions for me?" He moved toward her in a predatory manner, stopping when he was just inches away. "Surely, what with your _vaunted_ intellect, you are more than capable of figuring out why I issued you a detention?" He raised an eyebrow and one corner of his mouth simultaneously.

She glowered at him, and he smirked inwardly. She lacked all subtlety.

"No, Professor," she muttered.

Severus leaned even closer. "Learning Occlumency will serve no purpose if you cannot keep your every thought and feeling from showing itself on your face!"

"I--oh." Understanding dawned, and her eyes widened. Then she screwed up her face unbecomingly and moaned. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I just. . . It wasn't just smiling at you when I haven't before, it was. . . God, there were children of Death Eaters there, too!"

Severus leaned away from her slightly. "Indeed." He ran a hand over his jaw, watching her carefully. "And even if it was a class composed entirely of loyal-to-the-Light Hufflepuffs, there still would have been some students wondering why you were smiling at the. . . _Greasy Git_."

The girl's mouth fell open; apparently she had not realized that her professor might know what his students called him behind his back. He pursed his lips bitterly; that appellation had followed him from his student days, when its usage had not been nearly so covert.

"These lessons are _secret_, Miss Granger," he continued. "If the wrong person so much as suspects that I am teaching you to hide your thoughts, both our lives will be forfeit. If you ever, _ever_ again act differently around me than you have for the last five years, not only will I be forced to stop teaching you, but I will have you in detention and _out of trouble_ every night from now until you graduate!"

She gulped. "But sir. . . Everyone thinks I'm getting extra Defense classes. That you're helping me with a weakness--" he noted how the word nearly caught in her throat, and sneered, "--outside of class time. Surely they wouldn't think it odd that I'd smile at you when you're giving up your own time to--"

He made a swift, downward motion with one hand, cutting her off. "No," he said. "There is no logical explanation for your behavior." She frowned, and he bent down so that his mouth rested a breath away from her ear.

"People do not smile at me," he said. He felt her breathing hitch, but whether out of fear or from some repressed urge to disagree with him, he couldn't tell.

"Now," he said, straightening. "If you are quite through defending the indefensible, shall we continue with the lesson?"

. . . . .

"People do not smile at me," Snape said, his face so close to Hermione's that she felt his breath stir her hair. She inhaled to make what would have been an ill-conceived retort--of course some people must smile at him!--when her nose caught a whiff of his scent, and she held her breath, suddenly understanding why she had recognized his odd mix of smells in class that day.

_Amortentia_, she thought. _He smells like Amortentia. . . _Then came mortifying comprehension:_ No--he smells the way Amortentia smells to me personally. New parchment and peat smoke and something herbal, like freshly-cut grass._

Snape straightened and gave her an unreadable look. "Now, if you are quite through defending the indefensible, shall we continue with the lesson?"

Hermione nodded, though her mind felt stuck on her horrifying realization.

Snape looked down his nose at her, crossing his arms. "Deflection," he began, "is a far more useful mode of Occluding. I know you have a tendency to memorize your professors' lectures, so I won't bore you by repeating myself. I will say, however, that this technique requires at least as much concentration, and far more subtlety, than visualization. The latter characteristic," he added nastily, "I have yet to find evidence you possess."

Resolutely, she said nothing.

He raised an eyebrow, then reverted to lecture mode. "The key is to discipline your mind to keep dangerous memories hidden, while offering innocuous or otherwise useful ones in their place. Done correctly, this will make your mind appear entirely vulnerable. The shields that you will be required to put up differ from your visualization shield, in that they should not be recognizable as shields at all. Rather than blocking all access to your mind, they need to always be in place when facing an adversary--this will grow easier with practice--but instead of making them obvious, you must allow access to your other memories, even throw up specific ones that suit your purpose."

"But. . . what does that mean?" she asked. Her professor quirked an eyebrow, and she hastily added, "Sir."

"It _means_ that you have a lot of work to do." Snape made an impatient noise. "I've neither the time nor the inclination to indulge you with a truly thorough lesson on the theory." He strode to one of the many bookshelves that lined the wall opposite his desk and began running his finger down one row of cracked leather bindings. He'd set aside his voluminous teaching robes for once, and without them, his silhouette seemed oddly lean. Hermione allowed her eyes to rove briefly around the cramped room; nearly every surface, from the desktop, to the rickety table in the corner, to the shelves that lined the wall, was covered with books and pieces of parchment. She was surprised to note that there were still the odd jarred, pickled creatures on the shelves, remnants of his years as Potions master, mostly acting as props to keep piles of books from sliding off and onto the floor.

Snape turned back to her and she hastily snapped her eyes away from the rest of the room; he didn't seem the type to appreciate her perusal of his workspace. He held out a small, thick book with yellowed pages.

"Here," he said. "Read that, memorize it--I don't care what you do with it, frankly, as long as you return it by our next lesson and don't spill anything on it." He thrust the book into her hands, moved to his desk, and folded his arms in his most superior manner.

Hermione quickly set the book down. She didn't want to look into his eyes until she absolutely had to, so she settled for his right temple, where a vein was throbbing impressively.

"What you _need_ to know," he said, in a voice that implied that if she wasted his time by asking any more questions he would not be responsible for his actions, "is that the most effective way of hiding specific memories is to submerge the emotions attached to them. This involves considerable discipline, and by doing so, you will be able to keep dangerous memories at bay and bring to the surface of your consciousness only those memories you want seen." A pained expression crossed his face briefly. "You will see for yourself, when we begin on Legilimency, that when you delve into someone's mind, you can go as far as they allow. This means that as an Occlumens, with enough control, you will be able to continue to deflect a Legilimens' probing no matter how long it continues."

Hermione swallowed the questions that automatically tried to fight their way up her throat and out of her mouth. She nodded instead.

"Are you ready?"

Panic flared. She hadn't liked the feeling of him poking about in her brain before this last time; pain aside, she'd felt as vulnerable as if she'd been naked, even with--most--of the memories he saw being innocuous. Now that she had control of her visualization, she had felt, for the space of a few minutes, powerful and competent in the face of his prowess.

"I--what? Now?"

Snape's eyes narrowed, his lips thinning to the point of near non-existence. "Yes, now!" he growled. "Isn't this what you _wanted_, you absurd girl?"

Again, Hermione barely stopped herself from speaking what he was sure to hear as an impertinence--that his explanation, what he had deigned to give her, was all well and good, but she didn't really understand what he meant about submerging emotions. And didn't he have to know she couldn't defend herself the way he wanted yet? Was he trying to prove some sort of point about how unready she and Harry and Ron and all the rest were for the dangerous work that _he_ had been doing for so long?

_Discipline_, she thought instead. He had said, again and again, that this would require discipline. Hermione had not maintained her top marks through her intelligence alone; she had worked, and hard, at her homework essays, in her classes, at studying. She could be disciplined. She squared her shoulders and met Snape's eyes, still narrowed in irritation, and decided that the first step to proving her ability to maintain control of herself was to stop blurting out every thought that came into her head.

"All right, sir," she said, and was pleased by how calm her voice sounded.

"Very well. Rid yourself of emotion as best you can," he said with a slight smirk.

_Smug bastard_, she thought, suddenly understanding why Harry had always professed to hate him. She gave herself a mental shake; she wasn't accustomed to thinking so disrespectfully about her instructors, and such thoughts weren't conducive to ridding herself of all feeling.

Snape pointed his wand at her, waited a moment while they stared unblinkingly at each other, and then murmured the spell.

Lack of control was a kind way of describing what happened. Hermione instinctively began constructing her rose bush barrier, but then remembered that she was supposed to be suppressing emotions, not blocking Snape entirely; the roses vanished, but try as she might, Hermione could find no way of stopping the barrage of her memories that suddenly flooded her consciousness.

She could still see Snape's thin face, looking grim, through the onslaught; for once his face was not lacking in expression, and she saw, with the same feeling of satisfaction that she always felt when remembering this particular incident, his eyes widen in surprise as they both watched the centaurs carrying Dolores Umbridge deep into the Forbidden Forest. Almost immediately she tried to tamp down on that emotion, but Snape was too quick for her, and then more memories to which she attributed a similar feeling were rushing through her mind: capturing Rita Skeeter in her beetle form; solving an extra-credit Arithmancy problem that Professor Vector admitted she hadn't been able to solve until she was well out of Hogwarts; learning to read when she was a child, snuggled in her father's lap; punching Draco Malfoy; kissing Viktor; getting past Snape to nick Polyjuice Potion ingredients from his storeroom (_Shit! Shit!_); in the magnificent bath in the Prefect's bathroom, a novel charmed to hover before her as she relaxed among the bubbles---

_Deflection!_ Hermione's mind screamed at her frantically. _Quick!_

She summoned up the most harmless memory she could on short notice that had anything to do with feelings of satisfaction: a day back in first year, several weeks after the troll incident, when she had come down late to the Great Hall for dinner after spending too long in the library writing an essay; both Ron and Harry had turned to look at her, grinning, and waved her over to join them. "Hermione! We saved some tart for you!" Harry'd said. Hermione concentrated on recalling the warmth that had spread through her chest, the thought that maybe she could really belong somewhere, that people could want her to be around.

Then, suddenly, she could no longer feel Snape's presence in her mind, and she realized that her professor had broken eye contact and slipped out so gently that she hadn't felt a thing.

"That was--" he began, but Hermione, already reviewing the memories he'd been privy to, interrupted in a voice thick with mortification.

"Awful," she groaned. "I'm. . . I tried, Professor, I really did, but then you were in and I couldn't figure out how to stop you! And you saw--" She broke off then, and from the burning in her cheeks she knew that her embarrassment must be showing clearly.

Snape cleared his throat; he seemed to be looking anywhere but at her, and Hermione noted with astonishment that his cheeks were faintly pink as well. "You had the general idea, eventually," he said, surprising her still more. He glanced at her questioningly. "I assume that the last memory I saw was one that you showed me deliberately?"

"Y-yes." Hermione wiped her palms, which had grown damp at some point, surreptitiously on the edges of her robes. "How did you know that, sir?"

He frowned, the color receding from his cheeks as he retreated to the familiar ground of academic questions. "It went on longer," he said slowly, drawing one finger across his mouth in a gesture she was beginning to recognize as one he used when thinking, "and in more detail. Though I have made but a few forays into your mind, they have been sufficient to identify the patterns your natural thoughts take. Most of your memories are little more than images, and many of them are more" --his lip curled slightly in distaste-- "_feeling_ than anything solid. This one was different. Not to mention," he added dryly, "that you'd had a look of complete terror on your face, and once that memory surfaced, you looked more determined than anything."

Hermione smiled faintly in spite of her residual embarrassment.

"However--" Snape held up a finger, "--you allowed me to get much too far." His voice was hard and even again, with no trace of the discomfort she had discerned a moment before. "Deflection only truly works from the moment someone enters your mind. And while it is. . . commendable" --he twisted the word somehow in his mouth as though he was loath to apply it to her-- "that you were able, under stress, to conjure a memory that was related in some way to the string of others, you must understand that it was a flimsy, belated response that would never have fooled the Dark Lord." He moved to his desk, sat down with what might have been a flourish if he had been wearing his robes, and steepled his fingers, looking at her steadily.

"The memory you chose, too, would not have fooled anyone with half a pickled brain. While being. . . interrogated, as it were, by the Dark Lord, you would not be thinking about a happy childhood memory, no matter that it involves the emotion that you--carelessly--allowed through your defenses."

Hermione frowned at her feet. It had been her first time with this sort of Occlumency, after all. Then she looked up at him, at his pinched, sallow face; she could not guess his age, though he couldn't be very old if he went to school with Harry's parents, who got married and had Harry when they were almost a decade younger than her parents were when they conceived her. His raven's-wing hair, unblemished by any grey, supported this theory. His face did not; deeply lined, it made him look ten, maybe twenty years older than he probably was. His features were so--_ugly_, her mind inserted, but she felt sorry immediately and quickly swapped it for _unique_--that judging his age by his face was next to impossible.

If Snape noticed her scrutiny, he chose, uncharacteristically, to ignore it.

"Deflect the dangerous memories with innocuous, pertinent, _believable_ substitutes," he said. "You will not survive otherwise, if you are taken. But before we truly delve into that, you must learn to clear your mind of all emotion, and keep it clear. Learning deflection will not be worthwhile if you cannot at least do that."

"Yes, sir."

"You will come here again on Thursday," he said by way of dismissal, not meeting her eyes. She saw that he was--astoundingly--blushing again. "Same time."

"Yes sir. Good-night, Professor."

He inclined his head, but whether in response or in an attempt to pretend she didn't exist, Hermione had no idea.

She escaped before he could say anything else, her heart pounding,

He hadn't even mentioned the stolen Boomslang skin. She didn't know if that was reassuring or worrisome.

. . . . .

The next day Albus Floo-called Severus in his classroom after his last class--a particularly trying group of third-year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs--had left, to tell him that he would be away from the castle for a time. Severus had been glowering at a scorch mark on the far wall, the result of an overly enthusiastic attempt by one girl at a Jelly Legs jinx, and although the news was unwelcome in one sense--the Dark Lord was almost certain to feel more free to summon him as soon as he learned of Dumbledore's absence from the school--in another sense, the older wizard's absence would be a relief. Looking at Albus's cursed hand every evening at dinner was a sickening reminder of what was inevitably coming.

And he did not particularly wish to discuss his latest lesson with Miss Granger.

When Albus had pulled his head back out of the fire--though not before giving Severus a piercing look that suggested he knew exactly how his spy felt about his mysterious reason for leaving Hogwarts unattended by its Headmaster, and why--Severus gathered up the students' latest miserable homework essays and strode into his office, slamming the door open so that it cracked against the hard stone wall. The wards reset automatically behind him, and the hideous mirror, probably a remnant of bloody Lockhart's unfortunate tenure as Defense instructor, that was permanently stuck to the wall tsked slightly in remonstration, but Severus was in no mood to pay it any mind.

_Miss Granger._ Again, his thoughts were turning to her far too often; for all his terror about the Dark Lord, and Draco's plans, and the promise Dumbledore had extracted from him, he was ashamed to realize that she frightened him nearly as much. He'd known from the moment she made her request that the situation would be uncomfortable for them both at best and humiliating for her at worst, but somehow he had not considered the effect that even these brief glimpses into her head would have on him. He had used the word intimacy in that first lesson, but this had the potential to go far beyond the common bounds of intimacy and even decency. Physical intimacy was a concept with which he was acquainted, however distantly; likewise with the intimacy of the mind and emotions between friends and family. This was something else; this was intimacy of the soul, really, and he did not want it.

When Dumbledore taught Severus to Occlude, the entire experience was painful, shaming, in spite of the old wizard's surface kindness. Severus could say without doubt that Dumbledore knew him better than anyone ever had, even Lily when they were children--she to whom he had given everything, except his secret self, the place where he buried small hurts and larger embarrassments, quiet longings that felt degrading to speak of. Weak things. Lily had been a good friend, but even as a child Severus had recognized that the bright, beautiful witch who used to let him push her on the rusty swing set at the end of their road was probably meant for bright, beautiful things and people, which Severus most decidedly was not. It was always safer to keep some things hidden from her.

He had not fully comprehended, however, how far Legilimizing the Granger girl would take him into understanding her. Speaking of events, or feelings, or wishes, was one thing; it was something else entirely to feel for yourself another's emotions, to know her most secret desires as if they were your own, to trod the paths of her memories. Severus had never been friendly with his students the way many Hogwarts teachers were; even members of his own House, while important to him, did not and never would find in him a. . .confidant.

He sneered inwardly at the very thought.

Restlessly, Severus shuffled through the pages of an old Defense text, his dark eyes scanning a few lines before giving the attempt at distracting himself up as a bad job. He was suddenly in the uncomfortable position of being Hermione Granger's unwitting confidant. The only good point that he could find was that she appeared, if possible, even more discomfited by the experience than he was.

What had Albus felt, all those years ago, forcing his way past Severus's meagre defenses? He had seen his one-time pupil take the Dark Mark, only wincing though the pain of it burned through all of the nerve endings in his forearm like a concentrated dose of Cruciatus. He saw Severus debase himself in front of the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, groveling before Lily, whose beauty had somehow turned cold in the moonlight. He watched as Severus's father tried to shake the magic out of his fourteen year-old son; he felt the joy that leapt within Severus's chest when he took his first broom ride; his pride when he was the only student in his class to brew Polyjuice Potion correctly on the first try; his despair when he arrived home for Christmas in his fourth year to learn that his mother had been dead for two months; his rage and helplessness and loneliness when Black and Potter tormented him yet again. Albus's steady blue eyes gave away nothing of his thoughts during those sessions, and they took in everything, not looking away when Severus took part in the torturing of a middle-aged Muggle, overcoming his self-disgust by imagining that it was his father twitching on the other side of his wand, or even when he was eighteen and being propositioned for the first time by a female Death Eater, whose age-spotted hands still knew how to make Severus gasp with pleasure.

That thought brought the last memory Miss Granger had inadvertently shown him to Severus's mind, and he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to erase the sight of the girl--one of his _students_--in the bath. Somehow more erotic than the sight of her bare knees and shoulders peeking over the top of the water, or even the duskiness of one areola, just visible under the water in a break between hills of bubbles, was the book suspended magically in the air in front of her, something dense and Russian, which he would not have guessed would appeal to the girl. But then, he reminded himself grimly, he was just getting to know her.

_Bloody. Fucking. Hell._

He was forced to admit that perhaps the damned Gryffindor was more complicated than he had previously thought. For years he had thought of her--if he thought of her at all--as one of Potter's hangers-on, a perpetual know-it-all do-gooder whose very hair seemed an outward manifestation of her bloody enthusiasm. She protected Longbottom and her hapless friends at each and every turn. For months a few years ago, her attempts to free the school's house-elves had been a source of affectionate hilarity within the staff room. Severus had merely been irritated; not that he was in a position to disagree with her in principle, of course--years of effectively being enslaved to one master or another had left him with a cold feeling whenever he looked at the house-elves' obsequious expressions--but her earnestness about the whole thing set his teeth on edge.

But now. . . knowing what she had done to that Skeeter woman, to _Umbridge_. . . yes, perhaps she was ruthless. He had goaded her, that first lesson, derisively asking whether she considered herself ruthless enough to paw through his mind.

With a sinking feeling, he realized he hadn't bothered to learn her answer. _Bloody fucking hell._

Snarling, Severus hurled his book at the wall.

Of course, as he had long ago cast protective hover charms on all his books, the effect wasn't very satisfying.


	8. Thoughts in the darkness

Disclaimer: Not mine, alas.

. . . . .

The next lessons with Snape were pure hell.

Hermione didn't know what she had done to offend him, but it was clear from the start of their session on Thursday that he had even less desire to see her than usual. She was nervous upon entering his classroom, but excited too; for the past two days she had been practicing the ability to clear her mind of emotion, and she was confident that she had at least come close to mastering it, particularly after she had watched Lavender Brown sashay her way across the common room the night before, Ron following the movement of her hips and arse from the corner of his eye while Hermione sat in a chair beside him, looking over his Transfiguration essay. She had managed to stem the rising tide of jealousy and irritation completely so that she actually felt rather numb, and although she knew that her ability to do so was necessary, she didn't like the feeling--or lack thereof--at all.

If this was how clearing one's mind of emotion felt, perhaps that explained a bit of Snape's coldness.

It was hard to hold onto that epiphany, however, when she went to her professor for their next lesson and he met her hesitant, "Hello, sir," with a brief glance that made her feel like something filthy he'd found under his shoe.

He held out a hand, palm-up. "My book, if you please," he said, and glared at her while she fumbled through her satchel.

"Thank you for lending it to me, Professor," she said, holding it out to him. "It was very helpful--"

"_Legilimens_!" he snapped.

Almost instantly, Hermione thrust all feeling beneath the surface of the Black Lake, smothering it. Snape had not told her to use visualization in order to clear her mind, but the book he lent her had suggested it and she found that it helped. Her roses were tied to too many memories to be effective in this, but ever since her fourth year she had associated the lake with a cutting off of all senses. And while she wished desperately that she hadn't been bloody sleeping so that she could have seen the merpeople for herself, the experience had proven useful. She submerged her emotions moments after she felt the pressure of Snape's presence in her mind, and continued to shove them down, down, _down_, as he began his assault.

When he slipped out again, Hermione was panting; she could feel a trickle of sweat making its way down her back under the constricting layers of her school blouse, sweater and robes. She had thought he was only inside her mind for a few minutes, but the lack of feeling apparently skewed her perspective of time, for she was woozy and stars were clearly visible through the windows of his classroom, which were, for once, unshaded. She put her hand out against the nearest sturdy object--Snape's desk--and leaned against it.

Snape watched her for a moment. "That was adequate," he said abruptly.

Hermione glanced at him, offering a wry smile. "Thank you, sir," she said, striving for modesty though she couldn't help but feel she had done rather well.

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Next time we'll focus on something a bit more. . . challenging," he said, managing in ten words to negate all of her hard work and achievement. "Think about as many memories for use in deflection as you can. It will get easier with practice, to come up with a proper substitute for any. . . situation that you might find yourself in." His voice was dispassionate, and he was turning around and walking toward his office even before he finished his sentence.

Frowning, Hermione began to follow him, only to be stopped when he whirled about, hair and robes flying, and nonverbally opened the door to the hallway.

"Out!" he said, turning away before meeting her eyes.

Hermione stumbled slightly, clenching her teeth. Why his outright rudeness seemed surprising was beyond her. "Oh--yes, sir." She moved toward the open door, turning to call, "Thank you!" over her shoulder, but he was already gone.

. . . . .

Snape glowered at her throughout the entirety of their next lesson.

"The Dark Lord," he said, pacing before her, "when he invades your mind, will often latch onto certain emotions he senses, and deliberately follow them. Thus, he is able to learn a great deal about both his followers and his enemies."

Snape paused to glower at her, and Hermione forced herself not to look away.

"As such," he continued after a moment, "we are going to practice the art of deflection. _I_ will attempt to find memories attached to an emotion of my choosing; _you_ will be able to ascertain what I am looking for and put up a sufficiently convincing substitute memory."

He twirled his wand briefly between his fingertips, appearing lost in thought, then pointed it at her, meeting her eyes. He was in her mind before Hermione could react, and she lost precious seconds realizing that he had cast the necessary spell nonverbally.

There she was, anxiety making her heart beat too quickly as she watched the birds carrying her and the boys' OWL results inexorably nearer, and then she was creeping around Hogwarts' corridors, a hand mirror held in front of her to see around corners. Hermione recognized the tie between the memories quickly and purposely offered her professor another fear-based recollection: Remus Lupin, his body twisting grotesquely as he transformed under the full moon. Hermione felt again the dry-mouthed, muscle-freezing terror that she had in that moment, her brain stuttering to a halt, Harry's fingers digging into her upper arm so hard that she would have ugly bruises there the next day.

Snape didn't pull out of her mind or try to get past her defenses again; he seemed as frozen, standing before her, as Hermione had been that night in her third year, his impossibly dark eyes boring into hers as the memory played itself out. She watched with him as the werewolf reared back and howled, its blood-mad countenance bearing no resemblance to the gentle man it had been; and then they both watched as memory-Snape came to. At the time, Hermione had been--understandably, she thought--preoccupied with the werewolf, and hadn't been watching her professor's face as the spells they had thrown at him wore off. Now, she was able to observe him, the way his face was screwed up as though in pain, one long-fingered hand raised to touch the top of his head. Then his eyes focussed on the tableau before him, and, if anything, he became paler than usual, horror dawning across his features. She watched as he scrambled to his feet, reaching instinctively for a wand that--she remembered guiltily--wasn't there, a spasm of some sort passing over his entire body when his grasping fingers came up empty, before he stepped in front of the three terrified students, arms and legs spread wide.

Shame warred with admiration within Hermione's head, her own present emotions rather than the shades of past ones. She could tell that Snape felt them, too; a muscle twitched in his otherwise inscrutable face. She wanted to stop, to explain her feelings to him, to examine them more closely herself. It was so different, she wanted to cry, seeing events when she wasn't right in the middle of them. I'm sorry, she wanted to say, we stunned you and disarmed you and let Sirius bash your head and feet against the tunnel and didn't give a thought for you while you lay unconscious on the ground, and still you put your body between us and a werewolf. She wanted to ask him why he would do that, when they had wands and he did not, when he made it so evident that he didn't like them a whit, when they had been so careless of him only moments before.

But Snape had apparently recovered himself, and was pressing onward through her memories, catching the thread of her admiration and following where it led, through memories of Harry during the Tri-Wizard Tournament, and Professor McGonagall moving seamlessly from her Animagus to her human form, and Crookshanks getting past the Whomping Willow to press the knot on its trunk. Miserably, Hermione deflected him before he could continue; they kept it up for what felt like hours, the soles of her feet aching and her eyes feeling gritty.

And there, through it all, was her professor's sallow face, scowling at her as though she had done him a personal wrong.

Which she supposed she had.

. . . . .

The damnable girl ground her teeth when she was ill at ease.

Just one more trait to add to the ever-lengthening list of Things He Now Knew About Miss Granger.

Severus pressed his fingertips against his aching temples, easing himself into the chair behind his desk. She had actually slammed the door behind her when she left, moments earlier. Slammed it so hard that the illustrations nearest the door rattled, curse victims bouncing grotesquely within their frames, her "Good-_night_, Professor," half-obscured by the door as it closed, the unspoken, "_And good riddance!_" echoing in Severus's mind.

The lesson had actually gone remarkably well, in that Miss Granger had not allowed him into her mind at all. Severus had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that she had been getting better at an astounding pace, blocking him more and more reliably. Where Potter had fought him at every turn, refusing to do as Severus instructed, Miss Granger apparently spent all her spare time practicing.

Severus knew he should appreciate her efforts. That didn't mean he did.

During this lesson, she had managed to keep him out quite adequately through deflection; he had been hard-pressed, in fact, not to snort with mirth at some of the memories she had chosen. The third time he cast Legilimens that night, she managed to keep him from seeing anything at all that she did not put in front of him, a performance worthy of his own sessions with the Dark Lord. He watched her first attempt to ride a broom (ridiculous), and tried to press past it in search of her secrets. Instead, she threw up another attempt at broom flight, the Weasley girl coaching her on the scrap of lawn that served as Number 12, Grimmauld Place's backyard, Miss Granger's face a mask of utmost terror despite the fact that she was a scant three feet above the ground. Severus ignored his own amusement and thrust forward, and was suddenly faced with a much younger Miss Granger, barely out of nappies, making the heads of a row of truly tasteless porcelain dolls explode from across a smallish bedroom with gleeful waves of her chubby arms. Severus _did_ snort then--it was one of the most useful displays of wild, untrained baby magic he had seen, though he imagined her parents must have been alarmed--and before him he saw the girl smile grimly in response.

Irked, Severus shoved his way past several more memories that she tried to show him, ignoring her winces; the purpose of these lessons was to prepare her should she ever meet with the Dark Lord or one of his true followers, and gentleness at this juncture might well get her killed. Vaguely, he remembered her words from several sessions before, "_You've already witnessed one of my most embarrassing moments_," and began purposely searching for it. Her eyes widened as he roughly vanished a number of memories she threw up, trying to break through her defenses, then narrowed as she offered him an image of herself, wearing her Hogwarts uniform but obviously younger than she was now. Her hand was cupped in front of her mouth, but it couldn't hide her front teeth, which were rapidly lengthening. Potter and Weasley were standing between her and a laughing Draco; and then Severus saw himself, face expressionless but for a. . . cruel. . . twist to his lips.

"_I__ see no difference_," his other self said.

He left her mind as Potter and Weasley began shouting.

The girl was standing with her arms crossed, staring down at her shoes. Severus swallowed hard. "What," he asked, "was that?"

She began playing with a loose string on her cuff. "Deflection," she said, in a tone that would have bordered on Potteresque insolence had she not had the grace to look up at him and add anxiously, "Should I not have shown you what you were looking for, sir? I didn't see the harm, and I thought. . . well, I guess I thought that it would be easier to fool Vol--er--a Death Eater, if I slipped in some of what he wanted."

Severus tightened his grip on his wand. "How, pray tell, did you imagine you knew what I was looking for?"

At that, she looked cagey. "Um." Her jaw tightened, and Severus's molars began to ache in sympathy. "Well, I. . . I assumed you'd be looking for something humiliating. Sir."

He kept his face blank. "And what was the purpose of the other memories you showed me?"

A tentative smile broke out on her face, which she quickly smothered. "The book you lent me kept using the word 'distraction' to describe the memories used to deflect a Legilimens' attention. It seemed likely that you--and anyone else--would be more easily distracted by amusing images, rather than bland ones."

He raised an eyebrow. "Amusing. . . such as you on a broom?"

She shrugged uncomfortably. "Mildly amusing, then."

"Quite." Severus began to pace. Her idea was a good one, similar to the instinctive way he handled the Dark Lord's intrusions. So. The chit had intuition, as well as a decent work ethic. His shirt and coat felt uncomfortably tight around his chest and throat all of a sudden, a sensation that was absurdly like panic.

She was done. She had learned. Not perfectly, but well enough that he felt she could hold her own if necessary.

Which left Legilimency.

Severus wasn't sure what he said to make her leave, then; he did know that her eyes filled very briefly before they hardened and she swept from the room, slamming the door, and he sank into his chair, a headache pounding in his temples so hard that it felt like something trying to break through.

. . . . .

The first Hogsmeade weekend of the year dawned unseasonably cold, but the weather did little to dampen the mood of the students as they made their way across the castle grounds and toward the wizarding village.

Hermione, Harry and Ron popped in and out of several shops before finally succumbing to the cold and trooping into the Three Broomsticks to warm up. Ron elbowed his way through the crowded room toward the bar to get them all Butterbeers, while Hermione and Harry wove their way between clusters of laughing students to an empty table near the back. Hermione shrugged out of her coat and scarf, enjoying the warmth spreading through her body from the fire that crackled in the enormous fireplace, and eyed Harry, who was leaning back in his chair, looking more relaxed than she had seen him all term.

"It's not a very big place, but for some reason I never get tired of it," he said, noticing her scrutiny, gesturing with one hand in a way that encompassed the entire village.

Hermione laughed. "Maybe that's because we don't see anything else for months at a time besides Hogwarts," she said dryly.

He shoved his hair out of his eyes, shrugging self-deprecatingly. "I don't really get tired of Hogwarts, either."

Hermione thought of the castle with its countless secrets, its wide, lovely grounds and the deep blue of the lake.

"Neither do I," she admitted. She glanced across the room at Ron, who was leaning against the bar talking to Madame Rosmerta. She frowned, feeling self-conscious as she eyed the deep plunging neckline of the other witch's robes, which displayed a creamy expanse of cleavage. Hermione sighed. Her own jumper was crew-necked and sensible for the chilly day, and even if it hadn't been, she had little to display.

Harry must have sensed her shift in mood, because he leaned forward. "How's Snape been lately?" he asked. "You haven't been talking about your lessons."

She paused before answering. Snape had been even more snappish than usual recently, culminating in him screaming at her at the end of their last session for no reason that she could discern, raw power crackling around him and making his fine hair stand out from his face as if dancing along a current of static electricity. Taken aback, Hermione could only gape at him; then resentment overtook shock--the man had no reason to look so deranged, it wasn't as if she wasn't exhausted, or that she enjoyed their lessons much more than he did. Did he think she liked having him--unfriendly, uninviting bastard that he was--perusing her thoughts as if they were his own? What, _what_ in the name of Merlin's wand had she done to provoke him _now_? She did something then that she had never before done on purpose: she was disrespectful to a teacher, turning on her heel and leaving the room with only the barest of "good evenings," pulling the door closed behind her so hard she could swear she felt the stones under her feet shudder.

And yet, she could not bring herself to tell Harry any of that.

"He's. . . he makes it perfectly evident that he would rather be anywhere but teaching me." She shrugged. "But he _is_ teaching me. I can start teaching you soon, I think. In a few weeks."

Harry rested his chin on his hands, looking up at her seriously. "I feel badly that I'm getting lessons from Dumbledore and you're stuck with the Git."

"Don't call him that!" she said, thinking of the way he'd fanned his robes out in a meagre defense of three of them.

Harry rolled his eyes, but subsided when he saw her expression. "Honestly, though," he said, scooting aside to make room for Ron, who had returned with their drinks, "I really. . . thank you for doing this. Dealing with Snape for--for me, and everything." He smiled awkwardly and took a swig from his bottle of Butterbeer to cover his discomfort.

Ron looked back and forth between them, sipping from his own bottle, but before either she or Harry could start on a new topic that included their friend, his gaze had already shifted toward Rosmerta, who was leaning forward to wipe off the bar.

"Honestly, Ronald!" Hermione muttered, resisting the urge to fold her arms across her chest.

She was preoccupied on the way back to Hogwarts, and she walked slightly behind the boys, shivering in the fading light. Harry and Ron had their heads bent close together, walking slightly behind Katie Bell and a girl whose name Hermione didn't know.

Ever since their last lesson, Hermione had been unable to shake the image of Snape, wandless, injured, stepping in front of three foolish students. She swallowed, and asked herself again why he'd done it. Did he genuinely care about them? Was it some sort of bizarre reflex, of the sort that she would expect from Professor McGonagall or her parents, but not from her surly Defense teacher? Would he have done it for any of his students?

Her train of thought was suddenly cut off by a shriek that made her heart stop beating, then start again, much too fast. Ron and Harry had stopped walking and the three of them stared, open-mouthed, at Katie Bell, suspended above them as if by invisible strings, her face bloodless and almost inhuman for its expression of agony, arms and legs splayed horrifically.

Then, before Hermione could react, the other girl fell.

. . . . .

Severus was enjoying a rare quiet afternoon with a book and a glass of wine when his fireplace flared to life and Minerva's frantic voice called through.

"Severus! The hospital wing, quickly--a student has been cursed!"

Severus froze, stomach clenching, any number of scenarios flashing through his mind, before he snapped his book shut and strode to the fireplace, taking a pinch of Floo powder and whirling through the flames, across the castle.

When he stepped out in the hospital wing, Minerva was standing with Poppy Pomfrey gazing down at the infirmary's only occupied bed. Moving to stand beside them, Severus gave a grunt of surprise when he saw the Bell girl's still form.

"What happened?" he asked.

Minerva shook her head. "I don't entirely understand it; the students who witnessed the event are, understandably, shaken." She pointed to an object that was lying on a nearby table, partially wrapped in plain brown paper. "Apparently she came into contact with _that_."

Severus stepped forward, bending to examine the object, but careful not to touch it. It was a necklace of opals, almost painfully beautiful. He frowned.

"I can't do anything for her," Poppy was saying. "It's Dark magic. But I thought perhaps you. . ."

He turned back to the stricken girl and began moving his wand over her, muttering incantations as he did so. The curse was spreading; he had to stop it before it did permanent damage.

"Have you any idea where she might have gotten such an object?" he asked heavily.

Minerva pursed her lips; most observers would find her composed, but Severus had known her both as a teacher and a colleague, and he knew the difference between the age lines that normally creased her narrow face and the additional lines of tension that lay there now. "No," she said, then hesitated before adding, "Mr. Potter was adamant that Draco Malfoy was the culprit."

Severus looked at her sharply.

"But it is quite impossible," the older witch continued. "Mr. Malfoy was serving detention with me." She sighed, looking at Miss Bell's pale face. "Her friend did say that the Miss Bell intended to deliver the necklace to someone else, someone within the castle." She met Severus's eyes searchingly. "But she wouldn't say who."

A knot tightening in his gut, he turned toward the girl again. Later, he would have to have a conversation with Draco.

. . . . .

He never got the chance to speak with Draco that night.

Instead, after he had halted the curse's progress and the Bell girl had been sent, still comatose, to St. Mungo's, Severus had taken the cursed necklace to his office in order to see what he could learn about it. Dumbledore was still gone on his mysterious trip, and his spy damned him with each pass of his wand over the gleaming opals.

He directed his damnation at his other master when his Dark Mark began to burn. Severus nearly dropped his wand and pulled his left arm in against his ribcage, hissing in a sharp breath. _Bloody_ _hell_. He couldn't just leave the thrice-cursed necklace laying on his desk like a harmless bauble; trying to ignore the pain simmering in his forearm, he began setting a series of protective wards around it, after which he closed and warded his office and classroom and raced down the hallway to the dungeons, ignoring several students' startled cries as he hurtled past them. His personal wards recognized him and he rushed through his sitting room and into his bed chamber, simultaneously shedding his teaching robes and Summoning his Death Eater garb as he went.

As it was still before curfew, he didn't dare don the heavy robe and silver mask yet; instead he reset his wards and left the dungeons, and the castle, through a door hidden behind a tapestry depicting Salazar Slytherin crooning in Parseltongue to several dozen writhing snakes. Severus's breath was coming in shallow pants now as the Dark Lord's summons became more insistent; he still had to make it to the end of the grounds, and the Apparation point, and his feet pounded across the grass, his hair streaming behind him and sweat trickling down his forehead and stinging his eyes. Once beyond the castle grounds, he threw the robes over his frock coat and pressed the mask against his face, then finally, finally, touched the tip of his wand to his Mark and knew a blessed cooling of the pain there as he spun away into darkness.

. . . . .

Hermione was certain that Katie Bell's scream would be making an appearance in her nightmares for a long while.

The Department of Mysteries already haunted her dreams--not even so much the events that had taken place there, just the place itself: the smoothly rotating circular room; the Veil, undulating in a wind that wasn't there; the dark, endless rows of neatly labeled prophecies, created by the Trelawneys of the world, interpreted by sick minds like Voldemort's, deciding the fate of boys like Harry. While awake, she sometimes found her mind wandering, skittering across images of silver masks and Neville's legs dancing madly and Luna's normally composed face, pinched and pale with fear. She tried never to think about the excruciating pain of Dolohov's curse, and she was always careful to dress turned away from her roommates, not wanting to have to explain what had happened to her.

For the first time since their fourth year, Hermione thought she might have some small idea what it felt like to be Harry, having watched Cedric die, surrounded by Death Eaters and helplessly, horribly aware of his own youth and inexperience.

Something--something--about Katie's mad screech had disturbed Hermione on a visceral level. And now, hours after it was all over, and Katie was transferred to St. Mungo's and Professor McGonagall had sent them all to their beds, she couldn't sleep for replaying the sound of Katie's voice in her mind, for seeing her stretched, screaming face, the splay of her body in the air, her bonelessness when she fell.

Things were getting worse. So, so much worse. The Prophet's daily reports of Muggleborns disappearing, of Death Eaters growing fearless in spite of the increase in Auror presence throughout Wizarding Britain, and the strange things that she knew from her parents' recent owl were happening in the Muggle world, as well, had all seemed terrible, but somehow removed from her daily life at Hogwarts. The castle felt like a place apart, and although Hermione's heart did stutter each time she unfolded the paper, it had taken Katie's agonized scream to bring the full extent of the danger to the world she had grown to love crashing down on her.

The day had begun so nicely, too. The first Hogsmeade weekend of term was always exciting, particularly on such a bracingly cold late Autumn day. And while the novelty of the wizarding village had worn off slightly since their first visit to it in their third year, it was good to occasionally have somewhere to go other than the castle and its grounds.

Lavender snorted in her sleep as she rolled over, and Hermione sighed, giving up on the idea of sleep altogether. Every time she so much as closed her eyes she saw Katie; she had briefly tried her Occlumency visualization, but couldn't concentrate on it. She glanced at her clock, its face barely visible in the weak moonlight; it was after two in the morning. Quietly, she slipped out of bed and padded over to the window.

Outside, a sliver of moon hung low over the castle's deserted grounds. Shadows from the Forbidden Forest hovered menacingly at the edges of the grassy expanse; the lake gleamed silver, swelling and subsiding like something alive. Hermione leaned her elbows on the hard stone windowsill, trying to ignore the cold that was already seeping up through the floor and freezing her bare toes. She longed to throw up the sash and take in the cold outside air, or to run from the room, the panicked feeling in her chest making it hard to breathe, but the sound of the window opening would likely wake her roommates, and it was well past curfew. Instead, she pressed her forehead against the cool glass, wishing, for once, for some of Harry's brashness in blatantly disobeying rules whenever he felt like it, whether there was a good reason or not.

She exhaled, fogging the glass. Then she stepped back, head cocked to one side, looking at the distorted image of the grounds outside through the fine mist left behind by her breath. Glancing at both of her roommates to ensure that they still slept soundly, she made a quick decision, and threw on her dressing gown and cloak, heavy socks, and her shoes, then plucked her wand from under her pillow and tapped herself with it, shuddering slightly at the cold, almost damp feeling of the Disillusionment Charm as it trickled down her spine. It wasn't as good as Harry's Invisibility Cloak, but Hermione was sure of her charm work, and when she looked down at her body, it was only barely visible as a sort of wavy presence through which she could see the floor.

The door opened silently, to her vast relief, and she slipped through it and down the stairs to the common room, which was empty except for Neville, who had apparently fallen asleep over a homework essay. Grinning fondly, Hermione decided to leave him be; his mouth bore the faintest of smiles, and as someone who couldn't sleep for fear of nightmares, it seemed needlessly cruel to wake someone else from what was obviously a pleasant dream.

She pushed open the Fat Lady's portrait tentatively, relieved to find its occupant indulging in loud, open-mouthed snores of the inebriated variety. The hallway was cool and deserted, and as she made her way along it and down one of the--blessedly still, for the moment--staircases, Hermione wondered idly where the castle ghosts were. Did ghosts sleep? She couldn't remember ever having read anything on the subject, and made a mental note to check the library.

She felt rather like a ghost herself, really, trailing one barely-visible hand along the wall past portraits whose subjects slumbered in their frames and suits of armor that had relaxed minutely to lean back against the walls. The front doors would almost certainly be locked and warded at this hour; Hermione wished she had the Marauder's Map with her, but she was feeling rather bold, and even without being able to check the locations the tiny dots depicting the school's residents, she made for one of the hidden exits the Marauders had known about, reaching out a ghostly finger to press the dimple in the chin of a statue of Elspeth the Elegant, who, according to _Hogwarts, a History_, taught Charms a the school during most of the sixteenth century. A panel swung open behind the witch's statue, and Hermione slipped through. Moments later, she was on the grounds beside the Black Lake.

She settled down in the grass, leaning back on her hands. The air was cool, the sky inky and cloudless, so many stars hanging so low she felt as if she could reach out and gather them in handfuls. When she turned her head she could see the castle, and its beauty struck her in the belly in a way that it hadn't since she first saw it years earlier, riding across the lake with Hagrid and the other first years. At the time she had been thrilled and terrified with the idea of what awaited her, of this new life she was embarking on filled, quite literally, with magic, when only months before she had still believed that things like witches and wizards and giants and mermaids were fairy tale creatures. The castle had struck her as both lovely and frightening, its stone walls and huge turrets gleaming in the moonlight, and its vastness overwhelming to the small Muggle-born who had lived her entire life in a modest, two-bedroom Ottery St. Catchpole home. She had seen old, medieval castles on her family's holidays to France, but they were unused, with slitted windows and pokey halls, their feel more military than majestic.

Now the castle was merely. . . home. Safe. Before she ever came to Hogwarts, the world was paradoxically both simpler and more complicated than it seemed now. Since learning she was a witch, so many things that neither she nor her parents nor even her science classes at school could explain had begun to make sense. She gazed at it for a moment, feeling peaceful in a way that she hadn't since the debacle at the Ministry. She felt as though nothing could touch her, or her friends, or her world, as long as she stayed at Hogwarts.

Hermione turned back to the lake, but a movement caught the corner of her eye, a figure slowly crossing the grounds. Through the darkness she only had an impression of white skin and black clothing, and something that flashed silver in the moonlight, hanging from the figure's hand. Her breath stuttered momentarily, for she would know that gleam anywhere; it had surrounded her and her friends at the Department of Mysteries. A Death Eater was approaching Hogwarts.

She stood up quickly, thinking to run back to the castle and wake Professor McGonagall, but her sudden movement somehow caught the attention of the Death Eater, even Disillusioned as she was, and before she could get a Shield Charm up, he had his wand pointed at her, arm steady even across the expanse of lawn that lay between them.

"_Finite Incantantum_!" he shouted, and Hermione grew immediately weak with relief. She would recognize that voice anywhere.

As Snape drew closer to her, squinting, wand lit and still pointed in the vicinity of her throat, she held back a smile with difficulty. Until she remembered what time it was, where she was, and who the man coming toward her was; then her fight-or-flight instinct kicked in again. Or rather, her flight instinct, as fighting with her professor, in addition to having set him on fire, stolen from him, disarmed him, allowed an escaped convict to abuse his unconscious body, and now having been caught by him out of bounds long after curfew, didn't seem the wisest course of action.

So Hermione stood with her hands fisted in the folds of her cloak, toes curled inside her shoes, to prevent herself from running away as Snape approached.

He stopped a few feet away, tense and taut. "Miss Granger?" he said, his voice incredulous. "What the devil do you think you're doing?"

"I--" she stopped, swallowed, tried again. "I couldn't sleep."

He lowered his wand, its tip still lit, now illuminating the toes of his boots. "That is not an even remotely acceptable answer," he snarled. His dark eyes flickered across her figure, taking in her disheveled hair, her Oxfords and Muggle pajama pants peeking from below the hems of her dressing gown and cloak.

Hermione bit her lip, resisting the urge to put a hand to her hair, to straighten her clothing. "I kept thinking about Katie Bell, sir," she said finally. "I just. . . didn't want to let myself sleep."

Snape stared at her for a moment, then let out a wordless growl, raking one hand through his hair and turning to look out over the lake. "Merlin save me from bloody Gryffindors," he muttered, and Hermione's eyebrows shot up toward her hairline. When he looked back at her she could read the tiredness that his earlier tension had disguised, his face haggard, smudges of darkness shadowing his already dark eyes. "Nightmares?" he asked abruptly.

Hermione nodded warily.

"There are potions for that, you know," Snape said. He eyed her, then dropped the silver mask; they both looked at it, gleaming against the grass, and her professor crossed his arms defiantly before settling down on the ground beside it and gazing out over the lake.

After a moment of hesitation, Hermione sat down as well, wrapping the edges of her cloak tightly around her, and waited for him to send her away.

Instead, he surprised her by speaking to her of his own volition. "You were there when she was cursed, then?" he asked, not looking away from the surface of the water.

"Yes." She glanced at him questioningly. The wind was picking up, making her hair billow out on either side of her face like an unruly, fluffy brown cloud. Snape caught at the fine strands of his own hair and tucked them behind his ears.

"I should have guessed you were," he muttered. "Where Potter goes, you follow, after all. Though I suppose that begs the question of where he and Mr. Weasley are now." He raised an eyebrow at her mockingly. "Not to mention why you were. . . communing with nature. . . using something as easily seen through as a Disillusionment Charm, when I had always thought Potter's cloak was your. . . concealment of choice."

Hermione dared to laugh weakly; for whatever reason, after his initial fury he didn't seem inclined at the moment to punish her for breaking so many rules. She glanced at him from under her lashes; even in the darkness she could see that he was nearly grey with fatigue. Perhaps he was merely too tired to snarl.

"I knew Harry would want to come with me if I asked him for his cloak," she admitted. "I wanted to be alone, and I didn't fancy getting him into trouble as well."

"Ah yes. Your altruism rears its head once again," he murmured, but for once there didn't appear to be any malice behind his words, only weariness.

They sat in silence for several minutes, Snape with his arms wrapped about his legs under those horrible robes, his head bent so that his forehead nearly touched his knees, Hermione watching him, but trying to seem as if she wasn't. The mask leered up at her from its place in the grass beside Snape, and she shuddered. As when she had seen his Mark up close, she was reminded of the strange, dangerous life her strange, dangerous professor led.

"Were you. . . Professor McGonagall said you helped Katie before she was sent to St. Mungo's," she ventured. "And that you--that you had examined the necklace."

Snape raised his head and stared at her wordlessly.

Hermione swallowed, but pressed onward. "Did you learn anything?" she asked.

He exhaled loudly and rested his forehead on his knees. She was struck by how defenseless he appeared that way, the shell of one ear exposed, the nape of his neck visible above the collar of his frock coat between the lank strands of his hair. He reminded her of Ron or Harry, trusting her not to hurt him.

Of course, he was not either of her friends, Hermione reminded herself severely. He was a fully-grown wizard, far more powerful than any of them, who could see through her Disillusionment Charm and who could probably stop any hex she tried to throw at him before the words had left her lips.

_Except your stinging hex_, her mind reminded her, but the thought was cut off when Snape answered her question.

"Yes and no," he said, his voice almost muffled by the tilt of his head toward the ground. Then he looked up at her. "Tell me," he said, and in his deep voice it was a command. "Do you agree with Potter's assessment of who the. . . culprit is?"

"Malfoy?" Hermione asked, surprised. "No, not really. Professor McGonagall told us that he wasn't even in Hogsmeade. I. . . Harry's been convinced that Malfoy is up to something since before term began. Some of his reasons make sense, I suppose, but others seem. . . flimsy, I guess." She shrugged, feeling uncomfortable, not wanting to disparage her friend in front of the teacher he hated most. She recalled how quickly Harry had acted that afternoon, snapping out of his horror before she or Ron or Leanne were able to react to Katie's fall. Hermione herself had felt next to useless, but Harry had acted decisively and responsibly rather than indulging in heroics. Perhaps--perhaps--he was growing up, or somehow growing into his mind and power; today she hadn't seen the reckless boy who had insisted on running off to the Department of Mysteries on a doomed rescue mission, but a self-assured young man who was clear-headed in a crisis.

Snape nodded slowly. "Indeed," he said, drawing out each syllable to its fullest extent in a way that sent a shiver down Hermione's spine. "As to your question about Miss Bell. . . she was still unconscious when she left the school, and I am afraid I've no way of knowing when--or if--she will awaken."

Hermione's throat felt tight, and she nodded, blinking rapidly.

Snape cleared his throat uncomfortably. "The opals. . ." He broke off, and looked at her consideringly. "How old are you, Miss Granger?"

Confused, Hermione said, "I was seventeen in September, sir."

"Of age." He nodded, more to himself than to her, she thought. "And you have not been asked to join. . . a certain group. . . have you?" he asked, his voice low.

Heart pounding, Hermione shook her head.

Snape's lips thinned.

"I suppose it must be because I'm still in school," she said after a beat.

"Quite," he said. "And yet you are permitted to become an Occlumens for the sake of the. . . cause. And you are encouraged at every turn to indulge your _Gryffindor_ sensibilities and rush into danger without using the brains that are, supposedly, rattling around in your heads." He glared at her, and Hermione was torn between indignation and astonishment, for never had she imagined that he would speak to her so candidly.

Snape rubbed a hand over his face. "The opals were imbued with a particularly nasty curse, one which ought to have been fatal. Miss Bell was indescribably fortunate." He sighed. "Or so we must hope."

Astonishment won; Hermione stared at him.

"Do you know. . . who the necklace was intended for?" she whispered.

Again, Snape gazed at her for an unsettlingly long time before responding. "I believe so," he said shortly, then stood abruptly, brushing at his robes and Summoning the mask. "And before you ask, no, I will not be telling you who." He paused, looking down at the mask in his hands. "Not yet, anyway."

Hermione stood as well, and for a moment they were both still, Snape tracing his lips with one finger, head tilted up so that he could see the stars where they hung above the treetops, Hermione watching him, openly this time. She felt curiously as if they had reached an accord of some sort, though why she thought so, or how it had happened, she wasn't sure. She looked over her shoulder, where the castle soared benevolently above them.

"It's so beautiful," she breathed. Snape glanced at her, and she spread both arms wide. "So much better than anything I imagined as a child."

He snorted, but appeared thoughtful, his eyes roaming over the castle's turrets and walls, archways and windows. "I suppose it is," he said finally, the words spoken so low that they were little more than a rumbling deep in his chest.

He turned, remembering himself, waving his arm tiredly. "Inside," he murmured, and began walking.

Hermione followed him up a hill and away from the hidden door that she had used; everything that they passed appeared surreal. Was this truly happening? Was this man truly Snape? She felt as if she ought to be frightened by this change in the man she had known almost exclusively as cruel and malicious, but she was not. As they approached the enormous double doors that led into the school's main entranceway, Snape frowned, then rolled his eyes and muttered a series of complicated incantations that Hermione could not begin to follow, though she watched him avidly. The doors swung open, and Snape went through them; she scurried after him, narrowly missing being clipped by one door as they closed behind her professor.

Snape stopped in the middle of the entryway; in the light from the flickering torches that surrounded them, Hermione noted that he looked worse than she had realized outside.

"Get to bed," he said wearily. "Just--get to bed."

Hermione nodded, cheeks reddening, but she put out a hand, stopping just short of grasping the velvety cloth of his robes. Snape looked down at her.

"What?" he snapped.

"I. . ." She took a deep breath and said, daringly and all in a rush, "was the necklace the reason that you were called to. . . him?"

For a moment he said nothing, just watched her, and she felt in danger of being swept up in his searching gaze, his black eyes pinning her as surely as if he was performing Legilimency. Then he ran a hand through his hair, greasy strands falling back into his face in the wake of his fingers.

"Potter should not be endangering you by discussing things that he himself should not be privy to," he said.

"Everything that's happening affects Harry!" Hermione cried. "How can you say he shouldn't know? And because he _should_ know, he oughtn't be left on his own to--to muddle through what he learns." She stopped, mortified. Now she'd shouted at him. What was the _matter_ with her?

Snape looked furious for a brief moment; then every single part of him seemed to slump, his shoulders dropping, his arms hanging limply at his sides, his face somehow going slack until it looked like nothing more than a conglomeration of deep creases and the high, hard bumps of his nose and brow and chin.

"Yes," he said harshly. "_He_ called me. _He_ was most displeased by what transpired. _He_ expects me to do better. And _he_ kept me from learning more about the Merlin-damn-it-to-hell necklace because he insisted on keeping me with him until two o'clock in the bloody morning." He stopped, chest heaving, and fixed her with an unfathomable look. "And then when I finally arrived back here, what did I find awaiting me but _you and your bloody questions_!" He pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose, apparently in an effort to calm himself.

Hermione swallowed hard.

"Miss Granger." Snape's eyes were squeezed shut. "I'm tired. My head aches. And in the Headmaster's absence, I must still examine that necklace before I can take to my bed." He opened his eyes, and Hermione forced herself not to look away from him. "Consider what I have told you an extension of our lessons, and take care not to blather about it to your fellow miscreants. And know that I will speaking to Professor Dumbledore about you as soon as he returns."

Her eyes widened.

"I expect you in my classroom at the usual time for our next lesson," he continued, an odd edge to his voice. "We will be starting Legilimency."

Her breath stopped.

"Now _get upstairs_," he said, and turned on his heel before she could obey, vanishing into the darkness of the hallway that led to the Defense classroom.

. . . . .

A/N: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed! I honestly welcome constructive criticism, and the nice things you've been saying have been a tremendous motivator to keep at this story.


	9. Accepted

Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be.

Severus waited, tapping his fingers impatiently against the wall outside Dumbledore's office on Monday evening. He had spent the past several hours staring at the hourglass on a bookshelf in his sitting room, wondering whether Albus had returned and simply not Flooed him to let him know. It was time that could have, _should_ have been utilized marking essays or brewing potions for the infirmary or even reading the latest issue of _Potions Quarterly_, which he still subscribed to in spite of his new post. Instead, he had watched the trickle of the delicate grains of sand through the time piece's narrow middle, feeling as if he was sinking beneath them himself.

He did, however, scrawl a hasty note to Miss Granger, informing her that other business prevented him from holding their lesson that evening.

At last, he decided that he could not wait any longer, and set out through the deserted hallways to the Headmaster's office.

"Come in," came Albus's voice from beyond the heavy door.

Severus hesitated only a moment, caught by an odd, sudden feeling of foreboding, then pushed it open.

He felt immediately ridiculous. Dumbledore was sitting behind his desk, both feet propped on a fluffy-looking footstool, absently stroking Fawkes with one finger while popping cockroach clusters into his mouth with the other hand.

"Severus! Good evening, my boy." Dumbledore beamed at him.

Severus grimaced.

"Headmaster." He inclined his head, then sat down in the chair across from Albus, uninvited, and growled, "I trust you had a pleasant. . . trip?"

"Oh yes, quite, quite." Dumbledore peered into the bag of clusters as if deciding whether he wanted another one, then closed it, looking regretful, and put it in the top drawer of his desk. Then he turned his attention fully on his younger colleague. "It was very informative," he said.

Severus waited, but Albus did not seem inclined to elaborate.

"I assume you are aware of certain. . . events that transpired here during your absence?" he asked.

Dumbledore nodded gravely. "I heard about Katie Bell, yes." He adjusted his spectacles. "I was going to Floo you later this evening, but since you're here now. . ." He paused. "I'm sorry, Severus, I didn't even offer you a sweet." He made as if to reach into his desk again for the bag of clusters, but Severus shook his head adamantly, irritated.

"No."

"Very well. Minerva, of course, filled me in on what happened, as well as Katie's present condition." He smiled. "She said that you stabilized her before she was sent to St. Mungo's. Well done."

Severus swallowed thickly, but said nothing.

After a pause, Dumbledore prompted, "She also mentioned that you examined the necklace responsible."

"Yes." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "It is. . . a very old artifact, cursed in such a way that direct contact is instantly, painfully, fatal. As far as I can tell, the curse is not original to the necklace, but was placed on it sometime within the past two centuries." He paused. "Miss Bell only touched it with a very small bit of exposed finger. As it is, her healers are still uncertain whether she will awaken."

"Yes, I have spoken with them myself," Dumbledore said, looking troubled. He pushed his chair back from his desk and went to stand beside the window, gazing out on the rapidly darkening sky. "I believe you have an idea who is responsible?"

Severus joined him at the window; both men faced the grounds, rather than each other, though Severus was aware of the raspy quality to Dumbledore's breathing, as though the journey had cost him more than just time.

"If it is _not_ Draco, but someone else trying to kill you, then we've more problems even than we realized," he said dryly. He grew serious once more as another thought struck him. "Or if the necklace was meant for someone else entirely."

"Harry?"

Severus pursed his lips. "I think not. Miss Granger informed me that Potter was present when Miss Bell was returning with the opals from Hogsmeade. Were they meant for him, it seems unlikely that she would not have taken the most expedient course of action and given them to him then and there. In any case, Draco has become adept at avoiding me; I shall corner him when I get the chance, though I. . . do believe him to be behind the event. Whether he was in detention with Minerva or not." He paused. "I have another reason for believing that Draco is the culprit--the Dark Lord called me that same night."

Those damned blue eyes registered no surprise behind their half-moon lenses. "I thought he might have," Dumbledore murmured. "What did Tom have to say on the subject?"

Severus winced; calling the Dark Lord by his given name felt wrong. It smacked of a humanity that was barely there anymore. But he said nothing, knowing that Dumbledore did not want him to speak; instead, he met the headmaster's eyes and felt the tickling sensation of his mind being invaded, saw quick, flashing images of himself kissing the hem of the Dark Lord's robe; of Bellatrix and Narcissa standing off the to the side, the former looking madly gleeful, the latter frightened. He heard the Dark Lord's raspy voice:_"I thought you took a Vow, Ssseverussss? Why are you not doing more to help your brethren's son in his task?"_ And his own, monotone reply:_"The boy does not trust me, My Lord. He has not told me of his plans; I knew nothing of the necklace--"_

Dumbledore's eyes narrowed in concentration as the Dark Lord hissed his impatience with his spy's answer. Seconds later, Severus felt the older wizard withdraw from his mind.

"He did not punish you?" Dumbledore asked, raking his gaze over Severus's black-wool-clad form as if assessing whether he was injured.

"No," Severus said, adding dryly, "He seemed content in the knowledge that my life will be forfeit if I do not fulfill the terms of the Vow."

"Mmm." Albus turned back to the window. "Speaking, as we were earlier, of Hermione Granger--"

"She is an adept student," Severus interrupted, though the approving words were negated somewhat by the exasperation in his voice. "I cannot work out whether she is simply working as doggedly at this as she does at all her other subjects, or if the girl is just a natural Occlumens, but she has taken to the subject better than--" He stopped himself just short of saying _"anyone I've known," _and a small hitch in his voice was the only evidence that his next words were not the original ones he intended to say, "--I might have expected, given the company she keeps."

Albus's eyes twinkled. "So she will begin instructing Harry soon?"

_Always, always back to Potter_. "She could teach him now, this moment, if you would only stop insisting that she learn Legilimency first."

Dumbledore shook his head gently. "You know my thoughts on that, Severus. Harry must learn properly."

Severus turned back to the window, nodding stiffly.

The older wizard clapped his hands together briskly, returning to his chair. "Very well, then. Thank you for taking the time to speak with me, my boy."

Severus didn't move. "There is one more matter I wished to discuss, Headmaster." He turned his head slightly to give Albus a pointed look. "Regarding--Miss Granger."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "Yes?"

But now having broached the subject, Severus was not certain how to proceed. When he came across Miss Granger two nights prior, he found himself unable, or unwilling, to berate her as he might otherwise have done. The business with the Bell girl had left him shaking with helpless rage; she was the second student in fewer than three years to have fallen victim, perhaps fatally, to the Dark Lord's schemes, simply because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time, as Muggles rather aptly put it. Severus pressed his lips together. He had _liked_ Cedric Diggory, though no one would believe him if he said so, and he had nothing against Miss Bell except her Quidditch team's propensity for beating his. That these two young people had been caught in the middle of a fight that ought never to have involved them seemed criminal.

So when he saw Miss Granger, when she alluded to her nightmares, he could hear his own feelings of helplessness and frustration echoing in her voice, but magnified, and he realized as she spoke that she and Potter and even Weasley were being treated in much the same way that Dumbledore had always treated him, dropping tidbits of information, murmuring suggestions in their ears, encouraging their beliefs in their own abilities, but all the while denying them a true spot in the fight.

_He_ at least was allowed a place in the Order of the Phoenix--for the time being--a gift that acted as a sort of placebo, alleviating some of his feelings of powerlessness.

Sitting beside her by the lake, the darkness broken only by a slice of moon and a sprinkling of stars, he'd thought back over her school records, seeming to remember her being several months older than most of her classmates. So why _wasn't_ she in the bloody Order? For once he could not find it in himself to shout or scold or take points or give detention. He understood her predicament in a way that sat like lead in his stomach. He was tired, and he didn't have the energy to be that hypocritical.

Severus began to pace under Dumbledore's watchful gaze, letting his hair swing forward. "I am going to start teaching the girl Legilimency," he said slowly. "And I have some. . . concerns."

"Of what nature?" Dumbledore's words were bland, but Severus fancied he could detect a tinge of suspicion in his mentor's voice.

He skimmed his eyes across Dumbledore's face, not meeting the other man's eyes for long enough to allow for the performance of Legilimency or the detection of any real emotions, a trick he had learned as a boy when dealing with his father and perfected during his years as a spy.

"As I said, she has taken to Occlumency more quickly than I expected. And through our lessons I have discovered. . . I have reason to believe she will be a natural as Legilimens, as well."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows in question.

Severus cleared his throat, feeling suddenly nervous. "She and I. . . came to an agreement, some weeks ago, regarding our sessions." He met Albus's eyes, though warily. "We agreed not to speak of what we saw in each others' memories."

Dumbledore half-rose from his seat. "You what?"

"It was more self-preservation, and fear for _our_ plans--" He gestured back-and-forth between himself and Dumbledore. "--than it was regard for the sanctity of her mind." He drew in a deep breath. "But I have since done some thinking, and have decided that I am. . . glad that we came to that agreement. When you taught me to Occlude, I had given you every reason not to trust me. It was. . . only right, that my thoughts be laid bare to you."

Albus made an indistinct noise at the back of his throat, but Severus raised a hand.

"Miss Granger has done nothing wrong. She is no Death Eater. And I see no reason why her privacy should be invaded more than it already has been."

Dumbledore's face was unreadable. "And your concerns?"

"Her ability to Legilimize could, I believe, leave secrets vulnerable that you wish kept among members of the Order." He paused. "We have discussed this before, I know. But the girl is. . . better. . . than I realized. And before you ask," he said, beginning to pace again, "she has not allowed me to see any of the secrets you have been keeping from me with--with your precious Potter."

Dumbledore looked troubled. "I don't know precisely what Harry has been telling his friends about our lessons," he began, peering searchingly into Severus's face. "But surely you believe yourself equal to the task of blocking her from seeing anything she oughtn't?"

"I do," Severus responded smoothly. "And likely my worries are unfounded. However. . . I believe that for the sake of our cause, and for the sake of. . . _her_. . . Miss Granger must be made a member of the Order of the Phoenix before these lessons can continue."

Albus stared at him, for once speechless.

Severus took advantage of the older man's surprise, and hastened to continue. "She is of age, Albus! And if she is determined to take on the responsibilities of an adult in this war--and if you, and, Merlin help me, I, am determined to allow her to do so--then she deserves to have the protection of the Order." He gripped the back of the chair sitting before Dumbledore's desk. "And the Order deserves to know how Potter fares in his lessons with her. The boy is, for many of us, an unknown variable, Dumbledore. It would put many minds at ease to know what is happening with him."

Dumbledore lowered himself slowly back into his chair. "You worry me, Severus," he said finally. "I've never before known you to take such an interest in one student before."

Severus stiffened. "If you are implying---"

"Nay." Dumbledore shook his head slowly. "I am implying no impropriety. Merely that you are a vital resource for the Light, my boy, and I fear your interactions with Hermione Granger may be distracting you from your true purpose."

"Miss Bell being _cursed_ was a distraction!" Severus spat. "Not to mention you and your bloody foolishness with that ring." He ran a shaking hand through his hair, frightened by his own volatility. He was rarely truly disrespectful to Albus.

Albus gave him a piercing look over the tops of his spectacles. "Severus--"

Severus inhaled a deep breath, preparing to play his trump card. "Potter needs this," he said, careful to avoid looking directly into the older man's eyes. "Is that what you want to hear? I'll admit it--the boy needs someone close to him in the Order. He needs that protection. He needs someone to steer him, and how can we expect either Weasley or Miss Granger to do so if we're going to leave them all stumbling about, guessing---wrongly, most of the time---about what is actually happening?"

Dumbledore frowned into his beard. "You have not asked me for anything since dear Lily died," he said slowly, raising his eyes to Severus's in order to gauge his reaction. Severus flinched, but said nothing, and Dumbledore sighed. "Bring her to my office tomorrow night," he said. "I will ask Minerva to join you, as well." He fixed Severus with a stern glance. "But I need you to understand that this changes nothing. Matters must play out between us as we have already planned, and once that happens, you are not to be in contact with _any_ other Order members." His voice brooked no refusal.

Severus swallowed. "Yes, Headmaster," he said formally, made uneasy by the speculative way the other man was watching him. He turned and wrenched the door open. "Until tomorrow," he muttered, hurried out of the suddenly oppressive office, and allowed the staircase to carry him down.

He knew that what Albus had said made sense. Yet he could not bring himself to agree; ever since the day of the Bell girl's cursing, ever since that night when he had spoken to Miss Granger and seen the uncertainty swimming in her expressive eyes, he could not condone using her, or even her irritating friends, without offering them what little protection the Order could provide in return.

Even he had that much, for the time being.

. . . . .

Harry and Ron could tell that Hermione was in a foul mood at breakfast and steered clear of her. Hermione hardly noticed, poking moodily at her porridge, until Ginny plopped down beside her with a groan.

"Is it Friday yet?"

Hermione glanced at her, amused. "Not quite."

The redhead sighed. "Transfiguration is going to be awful this morning," she said conversationally.

Hermione lifted her spoon and wrinkled her nose, watching as porridge slipped off it in thick lumps. "Why's that?"

"I didn't get much sleep last night." She gave a covert look in Harry's direction, obviously hoping he was listening, and Hermione followed suit. These days, it seemed that Harry's moods took one of two forms: either he was overly-animated, about Quidditch or Malfoy or his lessons with Professor Dumbledore, or he was morose bordering on wretchedly miserable, thinking of Sirius and how badly he had misread everything the year before.

It didn't take knowledge of Legilimency to know Harry's thoughts and feelings; it only took knowledge of Harry.

And yet, he desperately needed to learn to Occlude.

But Professor Snape had canceled their lesson the evening before.

_Miss Granger, There will be no need for you to come to my office this evening. . ._

She risked a glance at the Head Table; Snape wasn't there.

She looked back at Harry, who was apparently feeling manic this morning, his finger tracing words in--damn it--the Half-Blood Prince's textbook while Ron looked on with raised eyebrows.

Ginny sighed again started spooning eggs onto her plate. "I don't know why I bother," she muttered.

Hermione forced her attention back to her younger friend. "Why didn't you sleep much?" she asked.

Ginny gave her a half-hearted smile. "Dean."

Still, Harry didn't take any notice. Hermione gave Ginny a small, sympathetic smile. The younger girl had had feelings for Harry since before she entered Hogwarts. And while Dean Thomas was nice and athletic and good-looking enough to be a good match for the spirited girl, Ginny could never quite ignore the fact that he wasn't Harry.

"Yeah?" she asked encouragingly. She'd barely spoken to Ginny at all in the last couple of weeks, what with homework and extra lessons and nattering at Harry about his stupid Potions book. She smiled guiltily as Ginny started to talk, realizing for the first time another thing she and Ron's sister had in common besides their affection for Harry and Ron: neither had close girlfriends.

As she turned to face Ginny more fully, Hermione put one hand in the pocket of her school robes and curled her fingers around Snape's note, crumpling it.

. . . . .

Hermione was just leaving the library before curfew that night when a throat being cleared behind her startled her out of a reverie involving several complex Arithmancy calculations whose answers she had not yet worked out successfully.

"Miss Granger. A word, if you please."

She stopped walking and turned her head to look over her shoulder. Professor Snape stood there, austere as ever, his face a total blank. She had spent the day fluctuating between anger with her professor for canceling their first Legilimency session--had something legitimate truly come up, or was he just avoiding her?--and confusion over his bizarre hot-then-cold treatment of her, sneering at her in lessons then being almost. . . kind?. . . when he found her out of bounds after curfew, and now canceling a much-needed session with no explanation.

"Yes, sir?"

Snape folded his arms across his chest. "The Headmaster wishes me to bring you to him."

Hermione blinked. "Why?" she asked, startled. Had Snape made good on his threat to go to Dumbledore after all? After several days of hearing nothing about her offense, Hermione had dared to hope that he hadn't spoken to the Headmaster after all.

He glared at her. "I assume he has his reasons." He turned, robes flaring around him. "Come!"

Bewildered and anxious, Hermione followed him. At the stone gargoyle, Snape paused just long enough to bite out, "Acid pops!" before stepping onto the spiraling staircase, glancing over his shoulder with a fierce glare to make sure that she was following. Hermione stepped up behind him, and the staircase began to move.

The herbal scents clinging to Snape's robes reminded Hermione strongly, again, of the Amortentia that Professor Slughorn had shown them earlier that year. She inhaled, trying not to be obvious; she felt incredibly off-kilter as she braced one hand against the wall, dragging it slowly across the cool, rough stones as the staircase wound its way upward. There was a disconnect in her brain, somewhere; she couldn't reconcile those lovely, beguiling scents with the taciturn man to whom they clung.

Then Snape was knocking at the door to the office, and she lost all train of thought entirely. There was a clatter of sturdy shoes on the other side of the heavy wood, then the door was wrenched open by a fierce-looking Professor McGonagall.

"Severus," she said in clipped tones. She didn't move aside, forcing her taller colleague to edge past her into the office, scowling darkly. Hermione paused uncertainly just outside the office door, noting the tenseness of McGonagall's grip on the knob.

"Miss Granger," her professor said in milder tones. "Come inside." She stepped back a pace, allowing Hermione easy passage into the room, then closed the door firmly.

Hermione stood with her hands clasped tightly behind her back, her eyes roving around the interior of the office. It looked much as Harry had described it: the portraits of late headmasters and mistresses, some slumbering in their frames, others looking out from their canvases with undisguised interest; the enormous cabinet in the corner; the fat, dusty books lining the intricately carved bookcases. Hermione felt her breath catch at the sight of the phoenix, tiny and bedraggled and obviously having just recently risen from the ashes; she took in the strange, delicate instruments humming to themselves on the wide desktop, and then, belatedly, she noticed the man sitting still as a statue behind the desk, one wrinkled, age-spotted hand folded against the other black, twisted one, his blue eyes regarding her seriously over the rims of his glasses.

"Professor Dumbledore," she said, her heart beginning to beat erratically. She was in real trouble, she was certain, or why else would she be summoned by Professor Snape to an office containing the school's headmaster and her Head of House?

"Hermione, my dear." He nodded at the chair directly across from his desk. "Please, make yourself comfortable." He glanced behind her. "Minerva, Severus--please do the same."

Professor McGonagall made a sort of harsh noise at the back of her throat before moving to stand beside Hermione's chair, raising her wand, and transfiguring a feather that had fallen below Fawkes's perch into a straight-backed chair of dark wood. She sat down and crossed her legs at the ankles, and looked at Dumbledore levelly.

Hermione lowered her eyes to her lap, clutching her fingers together to stop herself from picking nervously at the slightly worn hem of her jumper. She felt Professor Snape move until he was standing behind her chair; his presence cast a shadow, quite literally.

Dumbledore eyed Snape for a moment, then apparently decided it wasn't worth insisting that he sit down. "Yes," he said. "Well. I'm sure you're wondering why you're here, Miss Granger."

Hermione swallowed. She was?

Beside her, she felt Professor McGonagall stiffen infinitesimally. "Albus," the older woman said, her thick Scotch accent dripping with disapproval. "I wish you would reconsider this."

Dumbledore shook his head, not taking his intense gaze off Hermione. "No, Minerva," he said. "Severus is quite right about this."

Without thinking, Hermione twisted in her chair to look at up her Defense professor. He was standing behind her, his long, pale fingers resting lightly on the high back of her chair, several inches above her head. In spite of the gap between his hands and her body, she felt instantly embarrassed; somehow his looming presence and the proximity of his hands gave the impression that he was trying to protect her.

_Don't be ridiculous_, she thought, raising her eyes to his impassive face. "Sir?"

Snape looked down his nose at her for a moment, then flicked his gaze back up to Professor Dumbledore's face. "The Headmaster should be the one to explain, Miss Granger."

Hermione allowed her eyes to linger on him for another moment--he gave no indication that he was aware except for a minute twitch at the corner of one dark eye--then turned obediently to face forward once more.

Dumbledore tipped his head back and gazed at the ceiling for a moment. "Miss Granger," he said. "Hermione." He looked at her again with those blue eyes that Harry had always said could see straight through him. Hermione knew what he meant. "It has occurred to certain members of the Order that you are a good several months older than many of your friends. And that your. . . maturity, despite your status as a student, does permit you to partake in all of the delights of the grown-up world." He smiled at her. "You can order something stronger than a Butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks; you can vote for Minister of Magic; you can enjoy the company of whomever you'd like."

Hermione blinked. Behind her, she heard Snape's impatient intake of breath.

"This is hardly the crux of the matter, Headmaster," he said pointedly.

Dumbledore nodded affably. "Quite so, Severus, quite so." He returned his unsettling gaze to Hermione. "The crux of the matter, Hermione, as Professor Snape has so aptly put it, is that I would like to invite you to join the Order of the Phoenix."

She felt her mouth fall open. "P-Professor," she stammered. "I--"

Professor McGonagall interrupted with an inelegant snort. "So you and Albus have decided, Severus, that you are in favor of our students pledging their allegiance to--to danger and hardship and whatever else we in the Order might ask of them, simply because they've come of age? Because they're one month, one _day_ older. . .?"

Snape stepped around Hermione's chair. "Is that not what she and her little companions have been doing since they were first years, Minerva?" He crossed his arms. "You may have deluded yourself into believing that Potter and his cronies were merely being inquisitive these past years, but I have not. They've been sidestepping death; personally, I would advocate for all three to be initiated into the Order, but," he glanced at Dumbledore, "I have been informed that the decision for all Order members to be of age cannot be ignored even for the Chosen One." He scowled at the floor. "I believe Miss Granger at least has brains enough to put the Order's protection to use, for herself and for Potter."

Hermione was stunned. She opened and closed her mouth several times, but couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't be so utterly imbecilic that it would negate her professor's belief in her intelligence.

McGonagall reached out and put one hand on Hermione's arm in a rare show of affection. "Miss Granger, you needn't do this."

"You don't think it's a good idea," her student said flatly.

"No, I. . . No. Professor Dumbledore asked me to be here because of my positions in the Order and as your Head of House. But I am not in favor of putting children under this kind of pressure." She frowned severely. "Your job is to be a student. Not a--a soldier."

Hermione refrained with difficulty from saying that she was no longer a child.

Dumbledore took the opportunity to lean forward. "What do you say, my dear?"

"I--" She swallowed, and glanced apologetically at the older woman sitting next to her. "Yes, yes of course I want to join."

"Good." He smiled.

Hermione waited for a second, then two, but the old wizard sitting across from her seemed quite at his leisure.

"Er. . . Is that it?" she asked tentatively.

Snape's lips twitched in what, for him, appeared to approximate a show of amusement. "You were expecting an elaborate ceremony, perhaps? In the line of hooded cloaks and human sacrifices and _marks seared into your flesh?"_

She flushed a deep red. "Well, no, not precisely." It did feel a bit anticlimactic, however. "I suppose I'm just wondering what I'm supposed to do now."

Dumbledore chuckled and rose from his seat. "Come here," he said, tapping one of his desk drawers with the tip of his wand. It opened, and he removed something small that glinted dully. "You will be expected to appear at all Order meetings from now on. And you must wear this, child." He held the object out, and Hermione reflexively cupped her palms to catch it.

She glanced at it, but hardly had time to register that it seemed to be a chain of some sort before Dumbledore was talking again.

"This provides the bulk of the protection that Professor Snape was speaking of," he said, stroking his good hand through his beard. "It is the protection of _knowledge_."

Hermione felt something fizz through her at that; she understood how powerful a protection knowledge could be. It was the principle around which she had arranged her entire life.

"Thank you, sir," she breathed.

Dumbledore looked at her seriously. "Being an Order member is a great responsibility, Hermione. I would not have allowed a student--no matter her age--to be admitted did I not think that she was mentally and emotionally mature enough to comprehend the gravity of what this means." He waved a hand in Snape's direction. "Professor Snape assures me that you are just that." He nodded at Professor McGonagall, who pursed her lips disapprovingly. "And Professor McGonagall has been vouching for you since you first set foot in her classroom."

Snape snorted before she could respond. "Teenagers," he said, spitting the word out as though it tasted unpleasant, "are rarely_ mentally and emotionally mature_, Dumbledore. Never let it be said that I attested to something so outlandish." He smirked. "I believe I would have been rather. . . less effusive in my praise."

Hermione felt her brow wrinkle in response, but she forced herself to remain silent.

Dumbledore chuckled. "Indeed, Severus, I think no one would ever accuse you of being effusive." He glanced at Hermione. "Do you understand, my dear, the seriousness of what we are allowing you to be part of?"

"Yes." She paused. "Of course. I. . . I've known for years. Maybe for longer than Harry." She stopped, realizing how conceited she must sound. But it was the truth: Whether it was because he was so utterly enmeshed in the fight against Voldemort and needed to distance himself from the reality of what that meant in order to stay sane, or because he was unwilling, in those first few years, to recognize the terrifying turn that his life had taken. Or maybe it was how much she read; Hermione was a firm believer that reading--whether fiction or non-fiction--broadened the mind and made one more receptive to strange new ideas.

She cut her eyes at each professor in turn from under her lashes. Dumbledore was watching her avidly; McGonagall was running her fingers along the stem of her wand, looking rather as though she was muttering curses to herself in her head, under her severely pulled-back bun of greying hair. Snape was staring down at his pale hands where they rested against the edge of Dumbledore's desk, his dark eyes hidden under the heavy awning of his brows.

"I do understand, sir," she said again. "At least, I understand how serious all this is. But I don't understand exactly what will be expected of me." She opened her fingers and looked down at the length of chain coiled in her palm. There was a disk of some sort attached to it, flat and unadorned.

Dumbledore looked pleased, as if that was the very thing he had been hoping to hear.

"That is an excellent question," he said, beaming. "But I am afraid I must ask you to look to your professors and fellow Order members for the answer." He inclined his head toward Professor McGonagall, then in the direction of the black-clad man who was standing so completely still beside his desk. "I fear I have some business for the Board of Governors that cannot wait."

He stood, hands clasped in front of his middle. Hermione and McGonagall stood as well, the latter gesturing to her student to precede her out of the office. Hermione nodded good-night to Professor Dumbledore, then opened the door and stepped down onto the staircase. She glanced over her shoulder as the stairs slowly began to move; McGonagall had stomped past Snape as though he wasn't even there, nimbly joining Hermione on the steps.

Snape waited until they were rounding the first bend in the spiral before stepping onto the staircase himself.

. . . . .

The next several days kept Hermione so busy that she had little time to dwell on both her new status as an Order member and her Defense professor's most recent bout of strange behavior. She had exams in Arithmancy, Charms, and Herbology, as well as essays due for most of her other classes.

But at night, while she lay in bed, she couldn't sleep for her racing thoughts. The pendant hung around her neck now, always, tucked away under her jumpers and robes. In the darkness, she took it out, running her fingers over the small, smooth surface of it, over the fine, delicate links that made up the chain. It was cool, but she kept waiting for it to warm, for a message to appear.

Out in the hallway after the meeting with Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall had turned to Hermione. "I know you must have a number of questions," she began, "but this is not the place to discuss them. Let's--"

Snape appeared at that moment, blank-faced and silent. McGonagall's lips thinned, but she returned her attention almost immediately to Hermione.

"Let's adjourn to my office," she said. She glanced at Snape.

"Have you need of my assistance, Minerva?"

"No." She frowned. "I think you've done quite enough here, Severus."

Without another word, without looking once at Hermione, Snape turned on his heel and disappeared down the corridor. Hermione, in turn, followed McGonagall to her small, comfortable office, feeling oddly bereft.

McGonagall closed the door firmly behind them, and cast several privacy charms for good measure. "Would you like some tea?" she asked.

Hermione shook her head. "No, thank you."

"Very well." McGonagall sat behind her desk, indicating that Hermione should sit as well. "So. Questions?"

Hermione gave a small laugh. "Er--yes. Lots." She paused, opening and closing her fingers around the delicate chain they held. "What is this necklace, exactly? Professor Dumbledore said it contained knowledge. . ."

"Mmm. Yes. Well, not the pendant itself, but it has the. . . ability to transmit knowledge to you." She held out her hand, and Hermione dropped the necklace into it. "It's imbued with a variation on an undetectable extension charm," she said, glancing at her student to see if the term was familiar.

Hermione frowned. "I've heard of those--aren't they very advanced?--but I don't think we'll be learning them until next year."

"Yes. The standard charm allows for objects to be expanded so that they can hold far more than they look like they ought to be able to. Professor Dumbledore modified the charm so that he can send messages to Order members without risk of interception." She unbuttoned the first two buttons on her high-necked robes and reached inside, pulling out a pendant that was identical to Hermione's. She touched the tip of her wand to the disk, and the metal suddenly extended several inches and thickened until it was approximately the size of a small notebook. Professor McGonagall touched her wand to it again, and the front and back plates fell away, revealing the countless paper pages housed within.

"Professor Dumbledore can send messages to one or more Order members specifically, or to the entire group. He modified the charm so that not only does the notebook hold more pages than any notebook, by rights, should, but it is disguised as a rather plain piece of jewelry that is unlikely to attract attention. I would still, however, recommend that you keep it tucked under your clothing."

Hermione nodded. "So it contains a Protean Charm, too?"

McGonagall nodded. "Rather like the coins you so ingeniously charmed for your Defense group last term. The pendant and chain grow warm when you have a message; usually it will simply be the date and time for the next meeting, but occasionally he will have information or a request for certain members in particular." She leaned forward. "I'm certain you know, Miss Granger, that the Order's structure is quite different today than it was back in You-Know-Who's first rise. We have learned to be exceedingly cautious, and no one but Professor Dumbledore ever knows all of our plans at once."

"Yes, I know." Hermione bit back the urge to say she still thought Harry had a right to know everything she knew. She knew what McGonagall's answer would be. "How will I get to Order meetings?" she asked instead. "I mean--I've no idea where they're held during term. Is it still Headquarters?"

McGonagall nodded. "Yes, it is but. . " She frowned, thinking. "It wouldn't do for your absence to cause speculation. Perhaps. . ." Her voice grew heavy with resignation. "Perhaps your lessons with Professor Snape can do as a cover. If the meeting is scheduled ahead of time, you can meet him shortly beforehand and Floo from his office. If it's an emergency meeting, and happens after curfew--well, either he or I will fetch you."

"Thank you, Professor," Hermione said. She was suddenly overwhelmed. She was well accustomed to doing many things without the aid of her friends, of course--schoolwork being chief among them--but never anything of this magnitude. Her secret Time-Turner use paled in comparison to this.

McGonagall continued. "As a member of the Order, you will be in some ways apart from your friends. I know that Mr. Potter is the recipient of. . . well, I don't know quite what they get up to, but I know that he and Professor Dumbledore have meetings regarding He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named." She paused. "I do not expect that you will be a very active member, at least while you are still a student. Teaching Mr. Potter to Occlude is certainly responsibility enough for now. But your intelligence, and your own. . . unique perspective. . . will be welcome." She paused. "I don't think I need to tell you this, but I will anyway--you mustn't tell your friends about the fact that you are an Order member. Professor Dumbledore has been most adamant in his desire to keep underage students from joining--and you know that Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley will not be easy to convince."

Hermione frowned. "But Harry--"

Her Professor shook her head. "No," she said. "Not even him. And of course," she added, "you must keep everything you learn in the course of your duties as an Order member in the strictest confidence."

"Oh--yes," Hermione said faintly. Harry always shared the fruits of his lessons with her and Ron; now she had to leave them out of something so terribly important?

"--ought to get back to your dormitory before curfew," McGonagall was saying. Hermione blinked and stood up, holding out her hand automatically to catch the necklace her professor dropped into it.

"Thank you," she said again.

McGonagall sighed. "Miss Granger--you are the brightest student I have ever had the pleasure of teaching, with the possible exception of Professor Snape when he was a boy. I do not want you to think I doubt your intellectual maturity, or your personal bravery. My objections stem from a desire to see my students kept safe, and right now being a member of the Order of the Phoenix can have quite the opposite effect." She smiled, barely. "That being said, I know your determination to help your friend. Welcome to the Order."

Hermione nodded and squared her shoulders. "Goodnight, Professor," she said, and walked to the door. Then she paused and turned back to her professor, who was pulling an uneven stack of parchments toward her, ready to begin marking.

"Can I send messages to other Order members the way Professor Dumbledore can?" she asked.

McGonagall looked blank for a moment. "Well, no. He designed them so that his was the only pendant capable of communication. Ours are just receptors." She pursed her lips, picking up her quill. "As head of the Order, I suppose he wants to know what its members are doing."

. . . . .

In the hallway, Hermione was startled to see a dark figure standing with his back to Professor McGonagall's door, hands clasped behind his back as he stood perfectly still, apparently studying a rather ugly landscape. When she closed the door behind her, Snape didn't move, only said, "I trust Professor McGonagall answered your questions adequately?"

Hermione waited a moment, but he didn't turn around. "Yes, sir," she said, then added, "At least those I asked."

He did turn then, his face politely disinterested. "Indeed? There were questions you did not choose to ask her?"

"Yes," she said simply.

He stared at her for a moment, then said, "I've some brewing to do tonight for the infirmary. If you'd like, you may come with me, and ask your questions." He made it sound as if it was a matter of supreme indifference to him whether she joined him or not.

"Yes, thank you," she said, then asked, puzzled, "Isn't that Professor Slughorn's job now, sir?"

"Professor Slughorn came out of retirement with the greatest reluctance," Snape said dryly. "He is expected to do little more than teach his classes." He began to stride down the corridor. "Come!"

Hermione followed him through the halls, then he pushed open the door to the stairs that led to the dungeon. Their footsteps echoed in the stairwell; then Snape opened another door, and cool air washed over them. Hermione shivered, folding her arms for warmth as she hurried to keep up.

When they passed the Potions classroom, she frowned, confused, until they finally stopped at a half-hidden door so unadorned it looked as though it might belong to one of Filch's broom closets. Snape turned to face her.

"Don't touch anything," he said tersely, then proceeded to non-verbally dismantle the wards around the door.

Hermione raised her eyebrows, but wisely kept quiet, and followed him through the door.

She found herself in a cluttered sitting room that smelled strongly of dust. She had time for only a brief impression of threadbare rugs and piles of books and parchments before Snape was leading her through a doorway hidden behind a tapestry. Hermione followed him down a short, dark hallway, unlit by any sconces; she kept close behind him assuming that he could either see far better in the dark than she, or that he was familiar with these rooms. Then Snape unwarded another door and pushed it open, muttering a spell to light candles on the walls inside the room.

"My lab," he said briefly.

"Oh!" She stood very still, eyes adjusting to the flickering light. His private lab was undeniably better appointed than the students' lab down the hall; she counted no fewer than twelve cauldrons made of different materials, including an extremely costly, enormous platinum cauldron, sitting mundanely on the workstation. Where the room they had recently passed through--which Hermione now realized must be Snape's private sitting room--was thick with dust, the lab was impeccably clean, the wooden tables scrubbed, the cauldrons gleaming. When she turned to look at Snape, he was stepping away from an ingredient cabinet, his arms laden with jars and bottles. Hermione ran her eyes across them; it looked like he would be brewing Skele-Gro, and perhaps Burn Paste. She felt mildly disappointed that she would not get to watch him brew something more complicated.

Snape lined the jars up in front of a plain pewter cauldron, then took off his teaching robes, hanging them neatly on a peg beside the door. As Hermione watched from the corner of her eye, he unbuttoned the long row of buttons on the front of his frock coat, then undid the sleeves, finally shrugging out of the constricting garment, which left him in a sort of old-fashioned waistcoat and a white shirt. After hanging the frock coat beside his robes, Snape deftly rolled back the sleeves of his shirt; Hermione watched, surprised, as his forearms were bared. They were wiry, but very thin, his wrist bones pronounced. Then, to her amazement, he reachd into the pocked of his waistcoat and retrieved a length of twine. Scraping his fingers through the lank strands of his hair, he pulled them carefully away from his face, binding them in a tail at the nape of his neck. She caught another glimpse of the Dark Mark as Snape began chopping ingredients, his knife thumping on the tabletop in a precise, even rhythm. Hermione had never imagined him freely wearing so relatively--for everything with Snape, she was coming to see, was relative--few pieces of clothing before, nor imagined that he could be so unselfconscious in so few layers. But he appeared to be entirely engrossed in the work before him. Without his hair obscuring his face, his features seemed more severe than ever, but she could also see the sharp lines of his strangely elegant cheekbones, the almost delicate shells of his ears, the way his Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed.

"You said you had questions," he said abruptly, not raising his eyes from his task.

"Oh. Yes." Hermione shifted from one foot to the other. He had not asked her to sit down, and the lab's only chair was hard and straight-backed and probably not much more comfortable than standing.

"Such as?"

"Why can't Harry be in the Order?" she blurted. "It seems--ludicrous, really, doesn't it, sir? This entire fight centers around him."

Snape frowned. "Surely you're not that naive, Miss Granger. Potter is only one facet. As a Muggleborn, I would expect you to understand that."

"But in the meeting, you said you wished he could be inducted into the Order, too," Hermione persisted.

"That doesn't mean I think him all-important!" he snapped, finally looking up.

She rolled her eyes, without thinking of how disrespectful it would seem. "_I'm_ not the one who said he's all-important; Voldemort's the one who decided that."

Snape thunked the knife down on the desk. "Do _not_ speak that name," he hissed, one hand unconsciously rising to cover his Mark.

Hermione pressed her lips together briefly. "I'm sorry, sir," she said.

He eyed her for a moment, then returned to chopping. "Professor Dumbledore has been quite clear on this point," he said. "I don't know why. He doesn't share--"

"--everything with everyone. I know." Hermione looked at him apologetically, realizing she'd interrupted. "Professor McGonagall told me, sir."

"Indeed. All I can tell you--all I know--is that Dumbledore wants Potter to do. . . something, and he does not think the boy will manage it if he knows about it in advance." He scooped ingredients into the cauldron carefully and adjusted the flame beneath it. Then he put both hands flat against the table and leaned against them, looking at Hermione seriously. "We can only trust him. I know no more than that, Miss Granger."

Hermione nodded slowly. "You don't know what he wants Harry to do, exactly? I mean. . . more specifically than defeating You-Know-Who." Snape shook his head wordlessly, and she nodded again. She opened her hand, and stared down at the length of chain she still held clutched in her fingers. "Everyone in the Order has one, then?"

"Yes." Snape was watching her with an odd expression on his face. "And you should be wearing it, foolish girl, not carrying it about for all to see." He stepped around the workstation and stood in front of her, arms crossed and one brow cocked as she flushed and drew the chain around her neck, fumbling with the clasp for a moment before she felt it snick into place. Then she dropped the pendant down under the collar of her jumper where it lay flat against her breastbone, just under the hollow of her throat.

She clasped her hands together to prevent herself from fidgeting. "Thank you," she said at last, as the silence drew out between them.

Snape raised both brows in question.

"For asking Professor Dumbledore to let me in the Order." When he didn't say anything and his expression didn't change, Hermione took a step back, feeling awkward, and fetched up against the second workstation. "Ah. . . I just. . . I thought it was you, from. . . from what you were saying the other night and--and from what Professor Dumbledore was saying today. . ."

There was another pause, and Snape turned his back on her, leaning over his cauldron. He watched the contents burble for a moment, before picking up a stirring rod and stirring seven times, counterclockwise. Then he set the rod carefully back down again and said, without turning around, "I dislike waste, Miss Granger, and you and Misters Potter and Weasley were going to waste your lives by chasing the Dark Lord down without proper information. If last term is anything to go by, the chances of your recklessness getting you and those around you slaughtered was. . . high."

He spoke evenly, but Hermione could see his profile clearly without the obscuring curtain of his hair. His jaw was tight, his mouth a hard line, but his eyes were closed, lashes like smudges of soot against his cheeks, and his forehead was drawn up in a furrow of worry.

Hermione cast about for a change of topic. "Shall I meet you at the usual time for our next lesson?" she asked, and winced; her voice sounded forcedly bright.

"No." Snape had taken up the rod again, this time drawing it through the liquid in lazy figure eights. "I find that I will be. . . much engaged. . . over the next few weeks." He didn't look at her, and Hermione had the distinct impression that he was baldly lying. "I'll contact you when I have time."

Hermione regarded him evenly for a moment, then sighed. "All right." She stepped forward again. "Professor--I mean it. Thank you." She took a deep, steadying breath, then added, "Everything has changed since last year, hasn't it? Everything feels different."

Snape looked at her, and across his face she saw anger, weariness and dread flicker, and something else, something like resignation, like a runner who sees before him the towering slope of the final hill of his race, and doesn't think he can make it to the crest.

"Nothing is different," Snape said quietly, bitterly. "You're just starting to see."


	10. Better than I can express myself

Disclaimer: Unfortunately, they're not mine.

. . . . .

Severus sat in the staff box atop the Quidditch pitch, huddled between Pomona on one side and Minerva, still stonily ignoring him, on the other. He did not like to admit that her coldness bothered him, but while their relationship could never be called truly close, she had at least been good to him during his student days, and had appeared to appreciate his dry humor in the years since they had become colleagues.

Slytherin was playing Gryffindor in the first game of the season, but Severus was unable to concentrate on the match. His thoughts, instead, were with Draco, who had begged off playing Seeker, pleading illness. Severus had been sorely tempted to skip the match and follow Draco--if the boy was ill then Severus was a Pygmy Puff--but knew his absence would be remarked upon, particularly as Slytherin was playing.

A Gryffindor Beater came perilously close, then, to knocking one of the Slytherin Chasers off his broom, and the student stands, excepting the Slytherin section, erupted in cheers. Severus scowled. The school had always been united in its hatred of Slytherin. What chance did any of his charges have in the current climate, when they were all assumed to be evil already? He watched as the Chaser, a shy, lanky fourth-year with a talent for Charms, righted himself in mid-air and shot off across the pitch.

Without being conscious that he was doing so, Severus scanned the student boxes until his eyes lit upon the still form of Hermione Granger. She alone among the Gryffindors lacked animation; though she appeared to be watching the match closely, her body was stiff. Severus narrowed his eyes. No--she wasn't watching the match. She was watching the Gryffindor Keeper--Weasley--who, to Severus's disgust, was saving goals with a fluid ease. Ah. Of course. His lip curled as he recalled the feelings he'd discerned in her during their lessons whenever she revealed a memory involving Weasley. Then the boy saved another goal, pumping his fist in the air in a ridiculous fashion, and Severus snorted, irritated.

"Sore loser, Severus? It _is_ looking rather grim for you."

He turned to look at Minerva, who was still facing the pitch, leaning forward to watch as her team's Chasers whipped through the air right in front of the staff box. After a moment, Severus turned away from her, his eyes drawn against his will back to the Gryffindor stands. The girl had proven pleasantly. . . absent of late; apparently she had taken him at his word when he told her he was too busy for her. Ignoring the uncomfortable knot that formed in his stomach whenever he thought of their aborted lessons, he squinted across the pitch. Miss Granger was still watching the match, but she was now holding something--A book? A _book_, at a Quidditch match? And such a book--an enormous tome of some sort, thicker than Severus's arm. Even he never had the courage to read during a match when he was a student, no matter how engaging his current book might be. Every now and then, she took her eyes away from the pitch and lowered them to the volume in her lap; Severus drew his palm across his mouth to smother the smile he felt growing there.

Almost immediately, he gained control of himself. His lips felt stiff, and his mind skittered away from his amusement and settled instead into the familiar lines of irritation and anxiety. He watched, scowling, as Potter raced after the Snitch, to emerge from his dive with it clutched triumphantly in his fist.

Where the hell was Draco? he wondered, yet again. He stood blindly, unaware of Minerva's gloating, barely noticing Pomona's yelp as he nearly trod on her toes, edging past her out of the box. Dread poured into his chest cavity, supplanting any residual enjoyment he'd felt while observing Miss Granger and her book. Draco wasn't ill; he wouldn't miss a Quidditch match for that, particularly against Potter. Or he wouldn't have until this term. As he pushed his way through the students thronging to get near the victors, Severus recalled the boy's set, stony face, the only expression he'd seen on it since the Welcome Feast.

_What does he think he's doing_? The Dark Lord had hinted that Draco had a plan of some sort, but what it was--what he could accomplish from within the well-warded walls of Hogwarts--Severus couldn't fathom. His feelings of impotence and fear increased; whatever the boy's scheme, if it was as poorly executed as the plan to deliver the opals, there was little doubt that students would be hurt if they got in the way.

He jostled his way through a group of shouting, nauseatingly exuberant Gryffindors in the throes of celebratory bliss, and was so caught up in his own thoughts, he nearly missed seeing Ronald Weasley shout something at Hermione Granger, then storm off in a melodramatic whirl of mud-splattered Quidditch robes. Severus paused for a moment, watching the scene with interest; the foolish girl called after Weasley, but he didn't turn. Severus knew a moment of sneering triumph, seeing the look of hurt bewilderment turn to anger on Miss Granger's face; then he felt mildly ashamed of himself. Yes, her friends were morons of the highest order, and yes, how she chose them--and why she had such strong feelings for Weasley, in particular--was a mystery whose answer eluded him, but still. . .

He supposed he shouldn't want her to be as miserable as he. It was a rather novel concept.

Potter tried to say something to her, but was caught up in a tide of red and gold; he cast a helpless look back at her before his teammates carried him toward the castle. The girl was left standing alone, her hair and her Gryffindor scarf blowing out behind her as the wind picked up. The rest of the students were making their way back to the castle, chattering excitedly about the game, the staff following at a more sedate pace. Severus became aware that he had been standing in one spot, watching Miss Granger, for longer than was prudent; with a wordless growl, he tightened his scarf around his neck and strode off toward the castle.

. . . . .

Hermione managed to leave Snape alone for the better part of three weeks, a feat of which she was exceedingly proud. It took an enormous amount of self-control for her to ignore her natural impulse to know everything about everything (and right _now_, if you please). And this felt positively hurculean when coupled with the fact she wasn't speaking to Ron.

For several days after it happened, Hermione couldn't help but replay the image of Ron and Lavender Brown fused together in the middle of the common room, feeling physically ill whenever she did. She spent those days alternating between misery and mortification until, rather desperate for something with which to distract herself, she turned, predictably enough, to the library.

Which was where Ginny found her one evening, hunched over a pile of dusty books, hair in frizzy disarray around her head from having her fingers run through it fifty or sixty times too many.

"Hey, Hermione," the other girl whispered, glancing over her shoulder as if worried Madam Pince might be hovering nearby.

Hermione started and glanced around. "Oh--hi, Gin." She attempted to pat her hair and straighten her jumper, but only succeeded in smearing dust across one sleeve.

Ginny leaned forward, trying to read the title of Hermione's book upside-down. "I was wondering what you were planning to wear to Slughorn's holiday party," she said, a little too casually.

Hermione let her head fall forward so her brow rested against the worn tabletop. "Oh no," she muttered, her words muffled by the tangled curls falling forward around her face. "I forgot about it." She raised her head fractionally. "Would my new dress robes be all right, or are they too formal, d'you think?"

Ginny pursed her lips critically. "I think they should be fine," she said, then grinned. "Besides, there's no ball or anything this year--you might as well use the party as an excuse to wear them, after all the galleons they must've cost you."

Hermione shook her head. "My parents bought them for me from a Gladrags mail-order catalogue before school. For an early birthday present." Alan and Jane Granger were still mistrustful of many things in their daughter's new life, and Hermione had taken it as a hopeful sign when they chose to buy such an extravagant gift to recognize that she had reached her majority--in her world, if not in theirs.

Remembering the last couple of "Slug Club" gatherings, Hermione sighed. They were fun enough, she supposed, but they still made her uncomfortable. Then a horrible thought struck her.

"We're expected to come with dates, aren't we?" The words came out hoarsely. Bugger it all to hell and back--she'd meant to ask Ron, until he and Lavender turned into each other's personal Devil's Snares. And after that happened, she hadn't been thinking about the party, or much of anything at all, really, beyond schoolwork and the research she had been doing before Ginny showed up.

Ginny gave her a small, sympathetic smile. "Yeah, most people are, I think." She glanced down, picking at a hangnail. "Erm. . . You don't know who Harry's taking, do you?"

"No." Hermione glanced at the younger girl curiously. "You're bringing Dean, then?"

"Um, yeah." She shrugged. "I guess so." Then her expression cleared. "But we've got to find someone for you."

Hermione laughed, if a little hollowly. "Right. Because I'm such an appealing choice." She glanced down at her dust-streaked jumper and made a face.

"Well obviously you won't go like _that_," Ginny said impatiently. "We can make it like the Yule Ball all over again--half the boys couldn't keep their eyes off you." She lowered her voice. "My prat of a brother couldn't keep his eyes off you."

"I could never decide how much of that was me, and how much was because of his hero-worship of Viktor." She felt her cheeks warm. "Besides. . . uh. . ." She sighed. "Honestly, I thought he and I could go together--" She hurried to continue when she saw Ginny's knowing expression. "--You know, because he's been feeling a bit left out this term, not being asked to join the Slug Club."

"Well, that's out now," Ginny said baldly. She looked thoughtful for a minute, then her wide mouth began to spread wider in a toothy grin. "I bet we can find someone for you who'll bother Ron to pieces though."

Hermione's eyes widened, and she shook her head frantically. "No--that's not--I mean-"

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Come on," she tutted. "I'm not stupid." She could obviously tell how uncomfortable Hermione was with the topic, however, because she abruptly started in on another, though she retained a stubborn set to her chin that warned the older girl that the subject of Slughorn's party wasn't finished for good.

"What're you doing, then?" Ginny asked, leaning forward again, craning her neck to read the spines of the other books set in teetering piles by Hermione's elbow.

"Ugh." Hermione exhaled loudly. "Well. . ." She glanced around, but their section of the library was deserted. "I'm--I'm doing a bit of research into the old owner of Harry's Potions book."

Ginny's eyebrows arched, and her expression darkened. "Found much?"

"No!" Frustrated, she thumped her hand against the pile of books. "There's nothing at all about any prince in the Wizarding world, not even a mention." She ran a hand distractedly through her hair. Normally, whenever she and one--or both--of the boys were not on speaking terms, she found some project to bury herself in; third year it had been helping Hagrid prepare Buckbeak's defense. This time, she wanted to devote her time to learning Legilimency, and she would have pursued Snape were it not for the fact that she couldn't quite shake the set, _hunted_ look on his face when she asked him about their lessons the night she was inducted into the Order. She had no idea what his reasons were, although she had a suspicion that he simply might not relish the idea of allowing her access to his mind. But his face. . . She wouldn't harass him about it, not yet. Certainly he would come around to the idea in his own time; Dumbledore had told him to teach her, after all.

Instead, she had been spending even more time than usual in the library, trying to figure out who exactly the "Half-Blood Prince" could be. Something about that book made her nervous, and she didn't think it was _entirely_ the fact that Harry was using it to cheat in Potions.

Unfortunately, it didn't appear that the self-titled "Prince" had done anything else of note, in spite of the brilliance--Hermione admitted this only grudgingly within the privacy of her own head--he displayed in his notes.

"It's maddening," she groaned.

Ginny laughed, but it turned almost immediately into a frown. "I don't like that book," she confessed. She twisted a lock of bright hair around her finger. "It's too--too much like the diary in my first year. Sinister."

Hermione frowned. "It doesn't strike me in quite the same way, really, though I don't like it much more than you do." At Ginny's questioning look, she added, "I don't know why--I can't explain it, and obviously, I didn't have the experience you did with _that_ book. But. . ." She shook her head and huffed a sigh. "I don't know. Even without thinking the author is quite in Voldemort's league, I'd like to know who it is."

Ginny pinched her lips together in a remarkable imitation of Mrs. Weasley, but nodded slowly. "Well, I guess I'll leave you to it, then," she said, pushing back her chair. Then her expression turned mischievous. "I think I'll just do a bit of research of my own. . . See if I can't suss out which Gryffindor'll drive Ron wildest when you take him to the party." She tilted her head to one side thoughtfully. "Or maybe a Ravenclaw?"

Hermione laughed in spite of herself, and Ginny tossed her a bright grin before hurrying out of the library, the flash of her hair visible between the stacks, Madam Pince's indignant squawk echoing throughout the room as she ran.

Then it was quiet again. With a sigh, Hermione closed the book she had been looking at and pulled the next one in her stack closer.

. . . . .

She was reading by the fire in the common room, her chair turned firmly so that she wouldn't have to see Ron and Lavender where they sat in a dim corner in an unlikely-looking tangle of arms and legs. It was after curfew and the library was closed, and after several weeks of avoiding the two of them, Hermione had decided, once and for all, that she wasn't going to give up her favorite reading chair just because Ron was a prat and Lavender was---

But there she cut off her thoughts firmly. Lavender had been surprisingly sensitive about the whole thing, at least within the privacy of the bedroom that she, Hermione, and Parvati shared. She'd had the grace not to even mention that horrid scene after the Quidditch match, for which Hermione was immeasurably--albeit grudgingly--grateful. Her face burned whenever she thought about her behavior--shrieking like a banshee, and those _birds_. . . Though she couldn't help but feel somewhat gratified remembering Ron's shouts of outrage as he dodged the frantically pecking beaks.

In public, of course, it was entirely a different story--apparently Ron was irresistible to Lavender if they were within groping distance of one another.

She was engrossed in her novel, and didn't notice when Ron and Lavender parted ways, she tripping up the stairs to the girls' dormitory, he going to the boys'. Hermione didn't notice, either, when Ron came back down the stairs a few moments later, peering furtively up toward the girls' staircase for a moment in the manner of a boy about to do something he knew his girlfriend wouldn't appreciate. If she had been watching, Hermione would have been amused to note that he edged around the perimeter of the room, eyeing her warily before finally appearing to pluck up enough courage to approach.

"Erm--Hermione?"

She jumped, startled, and dropped her book. Craning her neck to look around the high back of her chair, her heart leapt, in spite of her attempts to stop it, when she saw him standing there, looking awkward.

"What?" she snapped to cover her momentary happiness at having him seek her out. Ron stepped closer, and she bent to retrieve her book, unconsciously imitating Snape as she let her hair fall forward in a tangled curtain to hide her confusion.

"I wanted to talk to you," Ron said carefully. She noticed that while he had moved closer, he was still standing rather farther back than customary for a conversation, still looking at her with a wary expression as though she might attack him at any moment. Hermione flushed angrily.

"Why?" she asked, clutching the novel to her chest and folding her arms tightly around it.

Ron cleared his throat. "It's Harry," he said finally. "He--I dunno. I'm worried about him."

Hermione frowned. "Why?" she asked again.

He took a tentative step forward. "His scar--I think. I mean, you know, he doesn't admit stuff, but you know how we can tell when he's hiding something?"

She nodded.

"He's woken us up a bunch of times recently, yelling in his sleep. Says it's just nightmares, but. . ." He grimaced. "I don't believe him. He's acting like he did before, when his scar was hurting--touching it a lot, not looking at me when he answers me. . . You haven't noticed anything, have you?"

Hermione's frown deepened. "No," she admitted, feeling suddenly ashamed of herself. She'd been so caught up worrying about Ron and Snape and the ruddy Prince that she hadn't been paying much attention to the one boy who was speaking to her. "I guess he has been looking rather tired lately. . ."

Ron nodded eagerly, apparently overcoming his nervousness enough to plop down in the chair opposite her. "Yeah," he said. "So--what about those Occlumency lessons?"

She glared at him. "I'm working on it."

He twisted his wide mouth off to one side discontentedly. "I. . . I'm serious, Hermione. I think he's getting--flashes, or whatever it is--of You-Know-Who again. I thought you were going--"

"Right," she said, cutting him off. Her voice was hard, and she stood up, holding her book in front of her like a shield. "Because I haven't been spending weeks in lessons with Professor Snape and practicing on my own, all to help Harry." Unspoken between them lay the question of what _he_ had been doing for Harry lately. Snogging Lavender Brown certainly didn't count.

Ron flushed, and Hermione felt a momentary rush of pure, spiteful gratification. Which was almost immediately replaced by the regret when, after they had stared at one another for several moments more, he suddenly turned and bolted for the stairs to the boys' dormitory.

. . . . .

Two nights later, Hermione made her way to the Defense classroom.

After Ron left the common room, the little, niggling feeling of guilt that she'd experienced while he was talking had intensified. The idea of Harry's mind defenseless before Voldemort terrified her, and if what Ron said was true, Voldemort was once again starting to experiment with the link between them--or at the least, Harry was getting those weird insights into the man-turned-monster's mind. She should never, ever have pretended to take Snape at his word about their lessons--she should never have given up what little power she had by allowing his--what? Unease? Preoccupation?--to dictate when she could start teaching Harry to protect himself. Even if Snape was likely to put her in a real detention for what she was going to say. . . well, the time for really caring about such childish things as detention and House points and even House loyalty was past.

The next day, she'd tried to discreetly catch Snape's eye during Defense, but he appeared not to notice her at all. Hermione briefly considered making a nuisance of herself to force him to give her detention, but thought the better of it; she couldn't imagine how angry he would be with her if she drew attention to herself in that manner.

Instead, she tried to wait after class, but he had nabbed another student, and the two of them were ensconced in Snape's office for so long that Hermione finally had to admit defeat and hurry off through the chilly afternoon air to the greenhouses for Herbology.

This afternoon she had rushed into his classroom at the end of the day's classes, out of breath after running flat-out from the dungeons after Potions. Snape was sitting at his desk, glowering across it at a tiny, frightened-looking girl, who appeared to be trying to make an excuse for her missing homework.

Amused, Hermione had leaned against the doorway with one hip, watching her professor's expression turn from irritated to furious in the space of several seconds.

"Detention with Mr. Filch tomorrow evening," he said through clenched teeth. The girl mewled slightly, and backed away from his desk, but she wasn't able to reach the door--and freedom--before Snape called after her, "I didn't realize that laziness was a hallmark of Hufflepuff House, Miss Weiner, but now I do, I feel some responsibility for helping you to rectify this defect in your character."

The girl stared at him with huge, terrified eyes.

"I expect you to come to class next week with three essays: the one you were supposed to have turned in today; a second, twenty-inch essay on a Defense topic of your choosing that you consider both pertinent to the present climate of the Wizarding world and interesting enough not to bore me too terribly; and a third explaining what you expect to do with your life that will not require you to complete tasks that are assigned to you."

"H-how long should that one be, sir?"

Snape glared at her. "Sufficient length," he said. "Now, get out of my sight."

The girl scurried past Hermione, distracting her momentarily from the front of the room.

When she turned to look at Snape, it was to see him disappearing into the fireplace in a whoosh of green flames.

She stared at the fireplace, at first bewildered, then incensed. The bloody man was avoiding her! Fuming, she turned on her heel and made, almost by default, for the library.

But she returned later that night.

She reached the door to the Defense classroom slightly before curfew and rapped sharply before her courage could desert her. There was no answer; she waited the space of a minute, counting off the seconds silently in her head, then knocked again, more loudly.

Again, there was no response. Hermione exhaled the breath she hadn't known she was holding. So, he wasn't there. She tried the door handle once, and let out a small cry when his wards sent out sparks that shocked the tips of her fingers. She jerked back, her fingers curled loosely into her palms, her hands at her chest.

Well.

She had the brief, insane urge to make for his private quarters. But she stopped herself before she'd taken more than a few steps in the direction of the stairs. It seemed to her that Snape had showed her an enormous amount of trust when he had allowed her through his rooms and into his lab several weeks ago. She didn't want to make him regret that; he was so intensely private that to take advantage of a rare moment of relative openness on his part would be terrible, somehow.

She sighed. She really ought to be getting a head start on her History of Magic homework, rather than poking about the school in search of a man who--clearly--wanted nothing to do with her. But. . . he had agreed to teach her. And Harry. . . Harry. She had a flash of her friend's eyes screwed shut in pain, as she had seen them several times over the years, somehow invaded by that vile. . . _thing_. She shuddered.

And pivoted on her heel, marching back to the Defense classroom door. She settled down across from it on the cold stone floor, crossing her arms and glaring balefully at the scarred wood.

He had to come sometime.

. . . . .

Severus stared down at Hermione Granger's prone form for several minutes before deciding to wake her.

She looked terribly uncomfortable, slouched down against the stone wall, her neck at a crooked angle, her arms crossed against her stomach, probably as protection against the chill of the hallway--the fool girl wasn't even wearing her robes, just her school uniform. Her mouth was open, which was discomfiting; it struck him as being somehow indecent.

She seemed distinctly young and vulnerable and foolish. What the devil was she _doing_ there at four in the morning?

Suddenly overcome with irritation, Severus leaned over the sleeping girl. "Miss Granger."

She snuffled quietly, turning her head away from him.

He poked her shoulder with the tip of his wand. "Miss _Granger_!"

The girl jerked awake and had her wand in hand so quickly that Severus barely had time to step hastily back.

She blinked at him. "Oh--Professor Snape!"

"Yes," he said testily. "Might I inquire as to what in Merlin's name you are doing outside my classroom at this hour?"

She had the grace to look abashed, though she tilted her chin up at him stubbornly. "I need to speak with you, sir."

Severus stared at her, feeling anger and something suspiciously like panic mounting within him. "Miss Granger, you are breaking curfew. Fifty points from Gryffindor."

"Professor--"

"Be _quiet_, girl! Or I shall speak to Professor McGonagall about taking away your prefect badge."

She paled at that, and scrambled gracelessly to her feet. "Professor, please--just--"

"Just what, you insolent chit? Make an _exception_?"

She swallowed, but her eyes narrowed.

His did the same. "Well?"

"I need to know why you haven't started my Leg--er--. . . um. . . extra Defense lessons." The words came out all in a rush. Severus continued to stare at her, feeling vaguely grateful that she at least had the sense not to vocalize the true nature of their sessions where any wandering castle resident could hear them, though the feeling of skin-prickling panic had intensified. After a moment she added, "And I want to convince you to change your mind."

Severus barely held in the laugh that spread through his chest and tried to escape through his mouth; what emerged instead was a sort of strangled bark that made Miss Granger back up a step, alarmed. He glared at her, rattled. This was not the first time that her forthrightness had startled him into laughter.

"I would advise you to return to your dormitory before I dock more points, Miss Granger," he said.

The girl's eyes darted down the hallway, which led, eventually, to the entryway and the four hourglasses representing the Houses' points for the year. Severus watched her warily, triumph warring with a strange disappointment inside of him, that the Gryffindor girl was so easily manipulated by something as asinine as House points.

Then she turned back to face him, straightening her shoulders and gazing at him levelly, and he nearly dropped his eyes, unnerved.

"Sir," she said seriously, but with an earnest undertone that served to annoy him still further, "I'm sure you must have a good reason for not having begun our new lessons, but. . . Things are getting worse." Severus narrowed his eyes at her and she hastened to add, "As I'm sure you know-"

"Yes," he hissed, "I do know. Better than you or your friends." He was nearly successful in tamping down the feelings of impotence and resentment that her appearance had brought forth, but her apparent decision to actually _sleep_ outside his classroom in the hopes of accosting him also brought unpleasant memories to the surface. Against his will, he saw an image of himself, half-prostrated before the entrance to the Gryffindor common room; ruthlessly, he banished it.

The situations weren't the same at all.

"Tell me, Miss Granger, did you truly intend to spend the night in this corridor or was that a _happy_ accident?"

The girl fidgeted. "Er. . . No, sir. That is to say, I didn't mean to fall asleep here." She met his eyes again. "But I did mean to stay here until you came by. I thought you might be patrolling tonight, but if not, I figured you had to come in the morning; I've noticed you're usually not in the Great Hall for breakfast, so I thought I could catch you before--"

"Enough!" He pressed two fingers to his left temple, hoping to forestall the dull, thudding pain he felt growing there, and glared at her. She had subsided, but barely; she was studying him intensely, her eyes resting on his fingers where they touched his head. Severus dropped his hand, and within moments, had removed the wards from his classroom door and thrown it open.

"Get in," he growled.

She hurried to obey.

He entered the classroom behind her, closing the door quietly behind him and resetting his wards before setting a Silencing charm on the room. He stood facing the door for several moments, trying to regain his equilibrium. He'd been a coward these last weeks, he knew--afraid of humiliation at the unwitting hands of a slip of a girl. He'd been behaving like the adolescent _she_ was, and which he hadn't been for nearly twenty years.

That she should be the one to ensure that their lessons went forward. . . once again, he'd managed to humiliate himself without help from anyone.

Swallowing, he turned slowly and fixed her with his fiercest scowl. "Well, girl? What have you to say?"

She looked back at him a little nervously, but with her jaw set squarely. "Harry," she began, ignoring Severus's involuntary growl, "has been having nightmares again." She stepped toward him. "Like last year," she said meaningfully.

Not caring whether she noticed or not, Severus pressed his palm against the side of his head, where the pain was throbbing harder. "The Dark Lord is invading his thoughts again?" he guessed.

Miss Granger was looking at him with--concern?--but she nodded. "Yes, sir. Or. . . Well, I don't know what exactly is happening, truthfully. Harry. . . Harry doesn't like to talk about it when it happens, and it's only been at night, I guess. Ron told me. . ." She trailed off for a moment, an odd expression on her face, before continuing.

"I don't know if You-Know-Who's been actively planting things in Harry's mind--I think it's more likely there's just a bleed-through of whatever it is that connects them. He sometimes gets quite vivid flashes of Vol--of You-Know-Who's thoughts and feelings."

"Indeed." Severus knew all of this, of course, though not that it had begun happening again. He spared a quick flash of anger for both the boy and Dumbledore, before dismissing it as irrelevant. Albus had chosen to task him with Potter's Occlumency lessons, even knowing their mutual antipathy, and how very important it was that Potter learn. And Potter had invaded his privacy as if he were entitled to do so. But his anger meant nothing in the face of the Dark Lord's continued presence in the boy's head, and it was a weakness, besides, if Miss Granger was going to attempt Legilimency tonight. He thrust it away from his consciousness, leaving a clear, empty, emotionless void in its wake.

He moved to his desk, leaning against it, and looked at her consideringly. "I really ought to have your status as a Prefect revoked," he said. She clenched her jaw, but otherwise made no response. After a moment, he added, "Your special circumstances" --he gestured vaguely toward his own neck, where, under the high collar of his frock coat, his Order necklace lay-- "do not permit you any special status or treatment outside of Order meetings. This is twice now that I have caught you breaking curfew and wandering about where you oughtn't--which makes me wonder whether these are the only such incidents, or if this is a habit of yours."

She shook her head, messy curls flying about her face. "No," she said forcefully. "It's not a habit, sir."

Severus raised an eyebrow. "Indeed? And that amusing little incident with Black--what was that? I suppose just another aberration from your otherwise impeccable record of rule-following." He advanced on her, and was both surprised and oddly pleased when she did not back away. Her face was pale, her nervousness betrayed by her clenched teeth and the rapid pulse beating in her neck. But she held her ground, and his eyes.

"Although," he added, stopping when he was a foot or so away from her and running one finger along the length of his wand, "I seem to recall from one of our. . . sessions. . . another incident." He looked at her coldly. "Involving Boomslang Skin. From _my_ stores."

Several emotions flickered across her face. Severus caught both fear and anger before she regained some control of her expression. It was the anger that alerted him to his mistake--bringing up the unsavory bits from her memories left him far more vulnerable than he would like, should she view something. . . Unsavory was too mild a word for the things she might see.

"Not," he said after a moment, "that that has any bearing on the here-and-now. It is your. . . nocturnal wanderings that interest me at this time."

She looked relieved and trepidatious in equal measure, and Severus swallowed and glanced away. "It would behoove you to know that I keep my promises, Miss Granger."

She nodded slowly, then straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin a fraction. "So do I, sir," she said seriously.

Severus looked at her for a moment, but though her pulse continued to beat too rapidly in her throat, her steady regard of him didn't waver. "Good," he said abruptly, and closed his eyes. His headache was growing worse, tension causing tendrils of pain to spread outward from his temple to curl around the back of his head and pool at the base of his neck. Exposing himself to what would, undoubtedly, be her fumbling and inept first attempts at Legilimency would only make it worse.

He opened his eyes to find her watching him with an unguarded expression, her brow furrowed, her eyes mapping the lines of his face, which he could feel were tight from tiredness and discomfort. This time, he could not pretend that she did not feel something akin to worry for him. He folded his arms tightly and frowned at her to cover his confusion, though the expression only made his head ache all the more.

"What?" he snapped.

She twisted her hands together. "I--I was wondering why you were coming to your classroom at such an early hour," she said finally. "I thought. . . I didn't realize that teachers patrolled all night; I thought that when you found me, it would be. . . well. . . either night or just before classes began."

Severus opened his mouth to tell her his reasons and his whereabouts were none of her bloody business, but stopped himself. Instead, he cocked his head to one side, ignoring as best he could the twinge of pain the movement caused, and said silkily, "Find out for yourself."

Miss Granger's eyes widened as the implications of his words sank in. "Now?" she asked.

Deliberately, Severus held her gaze as he backed away from her until he fetched up gently against his desk. As she watched, he set his wand on the edge of his desk, letting his fingers linger around its stem for a moment to ensure that it was not going to roll off and onto the floor. Then he removed his hand and, still watching her, stepped away from the desk, holding both hands out in a defenseless gesture.

"Now," he said.

Miss Granger palmed her own wand, but didn't raise it. She glanced around the dim classroom for a moment before returning her gaze to rest on Severus's face.

"I believe you know the incantation," he said.

"Right." She licked her lips and took a step toward him, then another, though still she didn't cast the spell. They were unnervingly close, and Severus found himself examining her face in much the same way he had noticed her examining him during their lessons. Her features were ordinary, pretty in a bland way. She had wild hair prone to frizz, rather heavy, straight brows, an unremarkable nose and a small mouth. Were it not for the intelligence in her brown eyes and the emotions that constantly played across her face, Severus would say that she was one of the least memorable of his students, as far as appearance was concerned, with none of the Weasleys' dramatic coloring, or Draco Malfoy's aristocratic features, or even Vincent Crabbe's sheer, intimidating bulk.

But with her eyes focussed so intently on his, he found that he couldn't look away--not because looking away would defeat the purpose of telling her to attempt Legilimency, but because he _couldn't_. Without intending to, he imagined her as he had seen her in her memory--bare shoulders glistening above the water of her bath, hair heavy with moisture, mouth curling in amusement as her eyes scanned the lines of the book hovering in front of her. Swallowing, he banished the image, gathered his Occlumantic shields as he watched her take a deep breath and point her wand at him with a hand that wavered only slightly.

"_Legilimens_," she whispered.

Severus had braced himself for her invasion, but he needn't have bothered; completely negating every fear he'd had regarding these lessons, she was timid to the point of absurdity. He felt the pressure of her presence in his mind, saw her face, both determined and hesitant, before him, but she clearly had no idea what to do now she was in.

_Something you_ don't _know, Miss Granger?_

She yelped and broke eye contact immediately, stumbling back into one of the student desks. Desk and girl fell with a crash.

She scrambled to her feet almost immediately, her embarrassment obvious even in the classroom's dim light. Without looking at him, she bent and righted the desk, then retrieved her wand.

"Come, Miss Granger," he said snidely, as soon as he was sure that she hadn't been injured by her fall. "Surely you can do better than that."

She frowned. "I didn't realize I'd be able to hear your thoughts. I thought--I guess I thought there had to be a visual component, as well."

Severus rolled his eyes. "Really, you disappoint me, girl. How would I--or any Legilimens--capture a subject's current emotions, if Legilimency relied on visual stimulus alone to receive any information?"

Her mouth dropped open. "I--" She broke off, flushed, and offered him a very small, wry smile. "I feel stupid. I hadn't considered that. The book you lent me--it didn't go into everything a Legilimens can see or hear, just how to keep one out."

Severus spared her an irritated glance. "Perhaps now you shan't glare at me during class when I remind you that not everything in life can be learned in books. Perhaps next time you think to spout something directly from the text, you will stop to think that maybe the text is only a starting point; that actual experience is what brings out the complexities of your studies. Be they Potions, Defense, or--" he quirked an eyebrow "--Legilimency."

Miss Granger laughed, though she looked thoughtful. "Perhaps," she agreed. "But--how _do_ I find what I'm looking for, sir?"

He crossed his arms. "Magic, Miss Granger," he said blandly.

She blinked.

Severus sighed. "You are a _witch_, are you not? There is a reason why Muggles cannot perform anything that even approaches true Legilimency, which, unlike Occlumency, requires a great deal of magical energy." He leaned closer to her. "Use your magic, and your brain."

Her eyes were wide, and she was watching him with some unfathomable emotion flickering across her face. Then, unaccountably, she chuckled again.

"You wouldn't think I'd ever forget about my magic," she said in answer to his questioning look. "But sometimes, I find myself doing things like a Muggle would. Like making the bed--I wasn't thinking the other morning, or, well, I was, but about a runic translation that I was working on for class, and I realized only after I was finished doing it that I'd made my bed entirely by hand. I was late for breakfast. . ." She trailed off, apparently realizing from Severus's disdainful stance that she was babbling. "Er. . . Right. So next time--remember I have magic."

He glanced at the window, where the darkness behind the shades was only just beginning to take on a greyish hue. Still very early, then. "Much as I would like to send you along to your dormitory to await a _proper_ hour for a student to be up and about, even Potter could have hidden all of his secrets from you, if this was your best attempt." He pinched the bridge of his nose, then looked at her, careful to keep his surprise that a faint smile still hovered about her mouth from showing on his face.

"Again," he said.

. . . . .

For all that she had practically forced Snape into teaching her, Hermione felt unexpectedly awkward when faced with the task of breaching his mind. For one thing, he was wandless, albeit this time of his own volition, and she couldn't help but be reminded of the last time he was without a wand because of something she had done. It shocked her, that he would purposely make himself so vulnerable in order to--what? Reassure her, perhaps, that he would not accidently, or intentionally, hex her as she had once hexed him. Harry and Ron would never believe her.

Her first attempt was pitiful. She murmured the spell, and then she was in. . . But it was like finally entering what she thought would be a long corridor lined with doors, only to discover instead a small room, devoid of any other entrances or exits.

Now, she stood before him again. _Magic. . . use my magic and my brain_. . . Feeling helplessly out of her depth was not something Hermione relished.

Her professor was watching her with a faintly mocking sneer, though as she looked at him something, some flicker in his dark eyes, made her think that perhaps he wasn't as self-possessed as he appeared.

Her nervousness slowly evaporated.

"Okay," she muttered. She raised her wand, and swore she saw a trace of alarm on Snape's face before she spoke the incantation, carefully and clearly, for the second time.

Again, Hermione found herself within her professor's head. The difference was difficult to explain; as with Occlumency, she could see him physically standing in front of her, but she could also sense a presence enfolding her that was neither her own mind, nor the room in which they stood. The presence was. . . impatient. And tense. Definitely Snape.

_Magic_, she thought.

She wanted to close her eyes in order to feel for her magic, but that would cut off her contact with the man in front of her. Instead, she held his fierce gaze and reached down within herself to where her magic's thrum originated whenever she cast a spell--somewhere between her ribcage and womb.

Once she felt it, she focussed on Snape, on the feel of his consciousness surrounding hers. Tentatively, she used her magic to push against his mind--she felt a wriggle of irritation in response, but nothing else happened.

Abruptly, Snape broke the connection. "Miss Granger," he said, "in the interest of expedience, I think it would be best if I intentionally show you a memory, so that you have some idea what experiencing one is like." His expression leaving no doubt as to how he felt about doing this, he added, "If you feel capable, you may attempt to use the memory to find others, and ultimately, to complete the task I set for you."

Hermione nodded, watching as he closed his eyes for a moment, apparently deciding what memory to lay bare to her perusal. Again, she was struck by how tired he seemed, and she wondered how many other students had noticed this about him: His apparently perpetual weariness; how often he was plagued by headaches; the tightly coiled way he held his body; the. . . something. . . she kept seeing flicker in his face. She couldn't yet put a name to the expression, it was there and gone again so quickly. An odd wariness, something that hinted at traces of fear or--perhaps--insecurity. Was everyone so blinded by his churlishness, she wondered, by his glares and stalking about, that they assumed that there was nothing more to him than that?

Snape opened his eyes and met hers impassively. "Very well," he said.

Hermione took a deep breath and raised her wand again. Again, she spoke the incantation, and again, she found herself suddenly very conscious of her professor's edgy, irascible _self_ surrounding her.

This time was different, however; Snape had dropped some of his shields, and she realized she could see something else, the memory he'd promised her. It was an image so vivid it was almost tangible, as though, if she reached out a finger, she could stroke the long, pale feathers of the quill memory-Snape was using to cover a long piece of parchment with angry red slashes.

Hermione held herself very still, watching as memory-Snape paused to re-read a line of messy handwriting. She could _feel_ his impatience with the writer, along with something else, some desperate, throat-clogging emotion that she struggled to understand before the memory abruptly moved on, Snape's concentration interrupted by a boy whose Slytherin tie was rakishly loosened about his neck.

"What is it, Richard?" memory-Snape asked; Hermione was surprised to hear the note of gruff, exasperated fondness in his voice.

The boy couldn't have been more than fifteen or so, but he carried himself--as Hermione had noticed Slytherins were wont to do--with the confidence of someone older. "I didn't mean to disturb you, sir; I know these aren't your office hours." When Snape raised one eyebrow and gestured lazily with one hand, he continued, "I was hoping you could go over your expectations for the essay on Hinkypunks in more detail. I found a library book that. . ."

The memory was fading; Hermione didn't know why, or how, but she suspected Snape was intentionally letting it go. Without consciously meaning to, she gave a great _thrust_ of her magic after the vanishing image of the Slytherin boy, Richard, and was startled when she found herself immersed in a moment in what had to be the Slytherin common room, if the forest-green furnishings and silver embellishments on the wall tapestries were anything to go by. Richard was standing with his hands clasped behind his back in a fair imitation of his Head of House, while Snape paced before him and a group of a group of his housemates, robes flapping in his wake.

"Unless you wish to draw undue attention to yourselves," he was saying, "I would suggest that you _not_ take part in any" --he sneered-- "_clubs_ or other extracurricular activities that would indicate a. . . political bent, shall we say." Hermione watched as he fixed each of his charges with a glare. "You have each been sorted into this House because you possess some, or all, of the qualities that Salazar Slytherin found worthwhile. The measure of a true Slytherin is not his or her politics, or friends, or even blood status. It is cunning; it is patience; it is critical thinking, the ability to read the subtleties of a situation where others cannot, and turn them to your advantage. It is, in short, the ability to _survive_."

The boy from the previous memory stepped forward. "But sir--what have clubs and school activities to do with--"

Their professor silenced him with a violent, downward slashing of his wand hand. This time, Hermione felt not the fondness of the previous memory, but a strange, squeezing tightness that was so palpable, it seemed as though it was in her chest that the panic resided. She wondered whether she was feeling Snape's emotions at present, or whether they were tied to what he was feeling when the memory took place.

"The Inquisitorial Squad was a political group," he said derisively. "And more of you took part in it than I care to think about. Should any other such. . . opportunities. . . arise this year, I would ask each of you to think very carefully before taking part." Hermione noticed that his eyes rested on Draco Malfoy, who was, to her surprise, looking supremely bored by his Head of House's words.

"But sir," Richard was saying, "Professor Umbridge--"

"Is even now recuperating at St. Mungo's," Snape snapped. His eyes flicked toward Malfoy again, and, curious, Hermione pushed forward with her magic, focussing on the blond boy leaning indifferently against a mantel carved with serpents.

Snape's shields came up so quickly that Hermione felt breathless, thick walls cutting off her access to the memory he'd been showing her. They broke eye contact, and she lowered her gaze, waiting for the space of several heartbeats before daring to study him from under her lashes. His face was closed; she couldn't tell from his expression why he had shut his mind to her.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said finally, when it became apparent that he wasn't going to speak. "I wasn't sure how to find what you asked me to." She paused to gauge his reaction, and when there was none, added impulsively, "That was--the most amazing feeling though. Following your thoughts using magic."

Snape's face twitched oddly, but he said merely, "Indeed."

"I'd like to try again," she ventured. "I still don't know quite how to find the--the reason you're here so early, but I do think I understand the Legilimentic process now. Roughly, at least."

Snape's lips thinned. Hermione shifted from one foot to the other uneasily. When, after several moments, he still hadn't spoken, she felt compelled to break the silence.

"May I ask--was that your welcome speech at the beginning of term, sir? That second memory, I mean."

Snape snorted. "Yes, Miss Granger. Much like the one I'm sure Professor McGonagall gives every year. Your powers of deduction are, as usual, astonishing."

She frowned in annoyance, but managed to keep her mouth shut. Professor McGonagall had not, in fact, ever given a Head of House welcome that discussed the prudence of joining politically-affiliated school clubs, at least for as long as Hermione had been at Hogwarts.

Her professor brought his fingertips up to his temples, pressing hard, his expression forbidding. She fought the urge to ask if he was all right, suspecting she already knew what his scathing answer would be. Obviously he wasn't all right, and if the tension she felt when she entered his mind was any indication of how he felt on a normal basis, it was no wonder his head seemed to pain him so often.

"Very well," he said finally. "You may try once more this morning." He straightened minutely, and Hermione did the same, rubbing one finger along the rounded edge of her wand. Snape crossed his arms over his chest, drawing his robes about him.

"Before you cast the spell, I want you to think for a moment--to _use your brain_. Remember our lessons in Occlumency: how did I go from one of your memories to another?"

She swallowed. "Um. You caught onto emotions a lot of the time, and followed them to other memories that felt similar. Other times. . . Other times you noticed something specific in my memory, and then found the same thing in another."

Snape nodded. "Yes." He paused, apparently waiting for her to make some connection, but Hermione felt stuck, and dumb. With a dramatic sigh, he finally said, "Clearly, Miss Granger, I showed you the initial memory because it contained something that could lead you to the answer you're looking for." His eyes narrowed, and he barked, "_Think_."

Her face flooded with heat. "Oh! Of course--the boy. I used him to get to the memory of your speech, but then I got distracted by Malfoy--"

Snape took an aggressive step forward, and she fell silent. "Then I suggest," he growled, "that you not allow yourself to be _distracted_ this time." He nodded at her wand. "Go on."

It was the speech again. This time, Hermione wasted no time, but focussed her mind and her magic on the boy, Richard. She found herself watching Snape observe him, at a much younger age, playing Gobstones with another boy in the sun-lit castle courtyard. It looked like Spring, crocuses pushing their bright heads through the moist soil and dotting the grounds with splashes of purple, yellow, and white.

She suddenly recalled the way her own memories had flashed before her like a Muggle videotape on fast-forward, and wondered if perhaps she didn't have to watch each of Snape's remembrances play out in their entirety.

Gathering her magic, she pushed again: a very small Richard at his Sorting. Another push: the boy, again fifteen or so, snogging a girl in a Slytherin scarf near the Quidditch pitch before being separated by a poke of the wand and a snide remark by Snape. Then he was in the Defense classroom, scribbling notes as Snape lectured. Hermione allowed that memory to go on for a moment; there was something tickling at the back of her mind.

_Think_.

Snape's eyes, the irises so dark they were nearly impossible to differentiate from the pupils, bored into hers as his memory-self continued to stride about the classroom, describing the effects of a Dementor's kiss in excruciating detail. Squinting slightly, Hermione concentrated on Richard's bent form, trying to keep the classroom itself in mind at the same time. Then she thrust forward again, and she was back in the Defense room, but it was the end of a lesson, students filing out, the boy Richard hanging back to put a thick, tightly rolled scroll on Snape's desk.

"My extra-credit project, Professor," he said proudly. "I wanted to make sure I finished it before the holidays."

One corner of Snape's mouth turned upward in a sardonic half-smile, and Hermione felt a rush of amusement and affection. "Very well," he said. "I've no doubt it will be far better reading than the drivel most of your classmates turn in." He nodded toward the door. "Get on with you, lunch is being served."

"Yes, sir!" The boy grinned cheekily and dashed out the door. Before he was gone, Snape had already begun untying the ribbon that held the scroll closed.

_Blast_, Hermione thought. She had been so certain that the Slytherin boy was the key to finding the memory she needed. Then curiosity overtook her; it was obvious that there was, between Richard and Snape, something like the mentor-student relationship that she shared with Professor McGonagall. She focussed her magic on the scroll, hoping to discover the topic of the boy's project.

She saw Snape in what she recognized from her brief glimpse of it as his sitting room, lounging before the fire with the parchment stretched out on his lap. He was wearing--_good God_--spectacles, which were perched precariously on the end of his great nose, and he was smiling with genuine warmth. Between the glasses and the smile, Hermione was dumbfounded; he looked entirely different than the Snape she was accustomed to, even accounting for the brief glimpses into his more human side with which she had recently been gifted.

Memory-Snape frowned then, flipping the last piece of parchment over. He rose, removing his glasses, and knelt to look under his chair and the table that had been by his elbow. Only when he abruptly left the sitting room after scanning it one last time, did Hermione wrench her eyes away, breaking the spell.

"You left it here!" she exclaimed.

Snape tightened his arms across his chest, smirking.

She raked her eyes around the room, taking a step closer to his desk. There--on the far side of the desk, mostly in shadow, was a single piece of parchment covered in cramped, boyish writing. "You dropped the last bit without realizing, and you were reading it tonight--"

"Yes, yes," he cut in. "Spare me the detailed recitation. It is enough that you learned the answer."

She felt suddenly exhausted, little sleep coupled with what she realized was an enormous magical effort leaving her physically shaky. Inside, however, she was elated. She'd done it. Oh, she had no doubt that Snape had been in control the entire time, never letting her see anything he wasn't willing to reveal, but still. . . She stood in the middle of the classroom as he stepped away, grinning like a fool.

"I don't see what there is to smile about," he said, his voice almost peevish. "You still have a great deal of work to do."

"Oh, I know, sir," she answered, trying to force the corners of her mouth down. They didn't seem inclined to obey.

He sat down at his desk, pulling the parchment he had come for toward him and cradling his head in one hand. Then he glanced up at her, clearly irritated.

"Return in two days' time to try again," he muttered. "At an _appropriate_ hour. After dinner worked well, I believe." He frowned at her, then added, "And I swear, Miss Granger, that I will not tolerate finding you out of bounds again. No matter if your reasons are for the 'good of the Order.'" In his drawl, her words from several weeks ago sounded absurdly childish; she fought yet another blush as he looked back at the parchment. "Now, go away."

Instead, she took a step forward, emboldened by their morning's work. "I have a question, sir."

"Of course you do," he said flatly.

Actually, she had several questions, all of which seemed to be vying for space on the tip of her tongue. She bit the inside of her cheek to hold them back, though it was hard to refrain from prying into why he was awake in the first place and reading a student's extra-credit work at such an obscene hour.

She chose instead to ask the question that was bothering her most. "When I was in your head, I felt. . ." She paused.

_You_.

". . . Something."

"Your eloquence is impressive as ever, Miss Granger."

"Well, I'm not sure how to explain it," she snapped, irritated into disrespect. She subsided with a huff, waiting for him to take points, but he just closed his eyes as though praying for patience.

When he'd opened them again, she continued. "I still felt like myself, but I also felt--something, or someone, else. I didn't expect. . . Can Legilimency expose a person's character, as well as their feelings and memories?"

Snape froze in the act of smoothing Richard's parchment. "What do you mean?"

She crossed her arms in front of her stomach, hugging her elbows. "I mean--there was a feeling there, a feeling of. . . characteristics, or--or emotions that weren't mine. I mean, I expected to maybe know how you were feeling, but it was more than that, 'emotions' doesn't cover it, it felt more _fundamental_ somehow. . ."

He was pinching the bridge of his nose again. "Yes," he ground out. "In performing Legilimency, one can often get a sense of a subject's. . . self, for lack of a better word." He met her eyes coolly. "No doubt that is what you experienced."

"Oh." She felt a little disappointed by his flat response; the idea, and the experience, had been fascinating and unsettlingly, deeply intimate. She would have liked to discuss it with him further, but decided she'd have to settle for raiding the library instead.

"All right. Good--good morning, I suppose, then, sir." She turned, and had her hand on the doorknob when his voice recalled her.

"Make sure to eat a substantial breakfast," he said. "I'm certain you've noticed that Legilimency, particularly when you are unused to it, can be very tiring. Both your magical and physical energy will be depleted; you must replenish them if you hope to keep up in your classes today."

"Okay," she said. "Thank you." She offered him a tentative smile, and was unsurprised when he didn't return it.

He seemed to be struggling with something, and then, seemingly against his own will, he asked, "How much--what, exactly, did you discern? Of my. . . self? What did you--" His mouth twisted. "--_feel_?"

"Very little, I suppose," Hermione said honestly, surprised that he had even asked. "Just. . ." She thought of the tension, the irritability, the strange, awful panic. Suddenly uncomfortable, she avoided his eyes and stared at the floor. "Unhappiness."

There was silence from his end of the room, and she finally dared to raise her eyes. He looked alarming--paler than usual, his dark eyes fixed on her with fierce attention.

She swallowed, then straightened her back. She was a Gryffindor, even if she didn't feel like it at the moment. And Gryffindors didn't always take the prudent route.

"I assume you ascertained something of--of me, during our Occlumency sessions," she ventured. When he didn't respond, just kept looking at her, she swallowed and repeated his question, so quietly it was almost a whisper. "What did you feel?"

At that, his face shuttered. "Go," he said.

Hermione smiled at him again, though it felt rather forced. Then she opened the door and stepped into the hallway, closing it gently behind her, and started walking blindly down the corridor in the direction of the Great Hall, lost in thought.

. . . . .

A/N: I'm sorry it's been longer than usual between updates, but real life insisted on getting in the way, and then the chapter absolutely refused to end. I tried to wrestle it into submission, but it's still on the long side. . .


	11. The shuddering, longing ache of contact

_Disclaimer: None of the characters belong to me, unfortunately._

_A/N: The "++" symbol at the end of a paragraph signifies that some or all of the dialogue in that paragraph came directly from HPB. I know I've been using italics to mark this in other chapters, but this chapter had quite a bit of book dialogue, and the italics were distracting me._

. . . . .

The door to her room opened, startling Hermione out of the contemplation of her own reflection in the dormitory's only full-length mirror. A quick look over her shoulder revealed Lavender standing just inside the doorway and staring at her in open astonishment.

"What _happened_ to you?"

Hermione turned back to the mirror, setting her chin.

"Nothing," she said tersely, gritting her teeth against the telltale hotness at the corners of her eyes. She'd managed not to cry for past ten minutes after she put on her dress robes; she wasn't going to start now.

The other girl came closer, apparently oblivious to her roommate's discomfort, and peered over Hermione's shoulder at her reflection.

"Merlin," she breathed.

"It's just a scar," Hermione said irritably, conveniently ignoring that she had spent the last several minutes trying not to burst into frustrated tears. Cleverest witch of her age, she thought grimly, and she hadn't even considered that the neckline of the dress robes her parents bought her would expose a large portion of red-and-white, raised skin.

She also hadn't taken her Order necklace into account; the wide "V" of her neckline did nothing to hide it, and though it was certainly unpretentious enough that she thought most people wouldn't look twice at it, she knew the danger if anyone _did_. After a moment of thought, she'd ended up wrapping the chain about her ankle before fastening the clasp; her robes were long, and she was certain she could feel the metal warm just as easily there as when it was about her neck.

Lavender, offended by Hermione's tone, sniffed and sat cross-legged on her bed.

"It _is_ a bit garish, dear," the mirror commented helpfully.

Hermione ignored it, instead pointing her wand at herself and charming the wrinkles from her robes' long, slim skirt. Then she looked back up at her reflection, wincing when the mirror clucked sympathetically, and lifted one wild curl before letting it spring back toward her head in frustration. She had purposely _not_ bought any Sleekeazy's-her date wasn't worth the cost or trouble. Most days she was too busy to be bothered about her hair at all, but _very_ occasionally she felt that she'd give her wand hand for the smooth elegance of Ginny's bright locks or the easy waves of Padma and Parvati's long tresses.

As she wrestled her wayward curls into a knot at the nape of her neck, she thought unhappily that this was one of those days.

"You'd better hurry if you don't want to be late," Lavender commented resentfully.

Hermione glanced at her. She knew the other girl would love to be invited to an exclusive party; she knew how absurdly unfair it was of Professor Slughorn to only include certain students in his gatherings. But then she remembered how Lavender had come up to bed the night before with swollen lips and a neck that was in desperate need of some Bruise Balm, and decided that unfair came in many forms, some worse than others.

"I'm off," she said, in what she hoped was an airy voice.

Lavender scooted to the edge of her bed. "Those robes look nice on you," she said grudgingly. "I mean, even with. . ." She nodded her head toward Hermione's chest, her expression avidly curious.

Startled, Hermione stared at her. "Er-thanks," she said, slipping her wand into her sash so that it rested firmly, comfortingly, against her hip. "I'll, uh, see you later, Lavender."

Ron wasn't in the common room; Hermione couldn't decide whether she was relieved or disappointed. She was suddenly unaccountably nervous. Bringing her hand up to her scar, she rubbed her palm against the ridge of it. She'd turned Ginny's half-joking threat to find her a date who would get under Ron's skin over and over in her mind for days-even going so far as to watch Zacharias Smith consideringly from across the Great Hall one mornong-before having the opportunity to take the younger girl's advice thrust upon her at a Slug Club gathering a week or so before the holiday party.

Professor Slughorn had only just got finished badgering Blaise Zabini about who he was planning to bring, when he turned to the muscular young man sitting on his other side.

"What about you, Cormac?" he asked genially. "What lucky young lady do you have in mind?"

McLaggen grinned. "Still weighing my options, sir," he said. "But-" He looked at Hermione with a gaze that was frankly lecherous, and said, rather louder than necessary, "I've been thinking of asking Hermione, here."

Hermione felt her face grow red as Slughorn boomed, "You've got the same good taste as the rest of your family, m'boy! Glad you see it, glad to see it." Oblivious to Hermione's discomfiture, or the eager way the rest of the students were watching the exchange, he leaned across the table. "What do you say, my dear? It seems young Cormac's quite smitten!"

She'd taken a sip of Butterbeer to cover her embarrassment, and choked on it at his last words. Ginny thumped her on the back helpfully, and she finally managed, "Ah. . ."

A sharp poke in the ribs from Ginny forestalled the immediate refusal that sprang to her lips. She raised her eyebrows, seeing the other girl's meaningful stare, then turned to look at McLaggen, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded across his broad chest. "I'd love to," she said brightly, trying not to cringe when he smirked at her.

"Excellent!" Slughorn said, smiling and clapping his plump hands together.

Ginny leaned closer and murmured in Hermione's ear, "Now, _that'll_ get right up Ron's arse."

. . . . .

Horace Slughorn welcomed Severus into his magically enlarged quarters with a cup of mead and a moist handshake.

"Severus, lad! So glad you could make it!" Horace, clearly halfway to being sloshed already, ran a beady eye over his younger colleague's attire. Severus withheld a smirk with difficulty. He'd worn his dress robes, as the occasion warranted, but they were as unrelievedly black as his everyday clothing.

"Always the dour one, eh?" Horace remarked jovially. "You couldn't have broken out something festive for tonight? Not even some Slytherin silver and green?"

Wiping his hand discreetly on the edges of his robes, Severus accepted the mead. "I've a reputation to maintain. I'm not certain the students could handle the sight of me getting so obviously into the. . . holiday spirit," he said dryly.

"Quite right, quite right!" Horace laughed, thumping him on the shoulder so hard that some of the mead sloshed over the rim of his cup and onto the floor. "I've got to circulate, m'boy. Do enjoy yourself!"

For a moment, Severus watched his former teacher waddle away, parting the crowd of merrymakers by dint of his bulk and booming voice. Then he moved back toward the wall, leaning against it and glowering over the edge of his cup at anyone who dared look at him for too long.

The party boasted the usual assortment of the talented, well-connected, or simply interesting. Severus was content to watch from his corner until such time as he could, without being too offensive, slip away.

He took a sip from his cup; the mead was delicious, rich and well-spiced. The one thing he could say in favor of Horace's get-togethers was the impeccable quality of the drink. He frowned, then, watching a group of Ravenclaws gulping from their own cups; he didn't approve of providing spirits to students. They were likely enough to do something stupid without the encouragement of intoxicants.

Speaking of which. . . two students nearby, obviously under the influence of the goblets of mead which they held in their free hands, were taking enthusiastic advantage of one of several sprigs of mistletoe Horace had charmed to hover above the heads of the crowd. Curling his lip in distaste, Severus took another sip of his own mead before marching over to them. Clearly, Horace couldn't be relied upon to keep order at his own party.

The boy had his right hand, unencumbered by his drink, pressed against the base of his partner's skull, fingers tangling in loose strands of her hair. She, for her part, appeared less keen on the activity than Severus had at first thought; her free hand was gripping the boy's arm, probably for balance, as she was leaning as far away from his body as his fingers at her head would allow.

"Ten points each from—" Severus broke off to identify the miscreants before naming their houses. The boy froze in the act of exploring the girl's mouth rather messily with his tongue before disentangling himself from her. Severus's lip curled further. McLaggen. A true oaf of a Gryffindor.

The girl had frozen as well, and appeared momentarily unwilling to turn around. When she did, Severus stared at her blankly for a moment before feeling a jolt of recognition. He could see why she hadn't wanted to look at him before, but hid his surprise behind the sudden surge of irrational anger that accompanied it.

"No," he murmured, not taking his eyes off the girl—Miss Granger's—face. "Make that ten points from Gryffindor for you, Mr. McLaggen, and thirty from you, Miss Granger. You are, after all, a prefect, and should know better than to flout school rules even on a night such as this."

She had turned white upon seeing him, but now unbecoming blotches of red appeared on her face, though she didn't respond. McLaggen, for his part, looked cocky as ever, and he reached out to catch hold of Miss Granger's elbow.

"Sorry, Professor Snape," he said, clearly unrepentant. "Won't happen again, sir."

"See that it doesn't," Severus growled.

He watched as the boy tugged on Miss Granger's elbow to draw her back toward the crowd; she followed, casting a furtive glance over her shoulder, though he noticed only a few moments later that she'd managed to somehow extricate herself from the lout and was pushing her way across the room, to be quickly swallowed up by the crowd.

Scowling, Severus polished off his mead and set the cup down. It wasn't anything to him whom the chit chose to. . . interact. . . with, but he had thought she'd have a bit better taste.

Then he recalled her unaccountably tender feelings for Weasley, and he wondered why her second choice should surprise him so much.

He decided a turn about the room's perimeter was in order, to make certain no other students were indulging in such untoward displays, but only moments in, he found himself somehow roped by Horace into a conversation with, of all damn people, Potter, Trelawney, and the Lovegood girl.

"Stop skulking and come and join us, Severus!" Horace's round face was flushed with drink and high spirits, his arm laying like a weight across Severus's shoulders.++

A disturbance at the entrance to Horace's rooms provided a distraction, and Severus glanced up along with everyone else. He felt as thought every artery in his body had frozen over when he saw what was causing the fuss: Argus Filch, winding his way through suddenly still merrymakers, shoving before him, his gnarled hand clamped painfully around the boy's ear, a sullen-looking Draco Malfoy.

"Professor Slughorn," Argus said, wheezing slightly. "I discovered this boy lurking in an upstairs corridor. He claims to have been invited to your party and to have been delayed in setting out. Did you issue him with an invitation?"++

"All right, I wasn't invited!" Draco spat, twisting out of the caretaker's grip. "I was trying to gate-crash, happy?"++

Severus's heart stuttered in his chest before starting to beat again, erratically. An upstairs corridor. . .? His mind whirred, trying to take inventory of the possible rooms Draco was headed for, but without knowing precisely where Filch found him, there was little point. Vaguely aware that Slughorn had-with drunken magnanimity-told the boy he was welcome to stay, Severus made a mental note to ask Argus at his earliest opportunity.

He realized suddenly that Potter was watching him with narrowed eyes. The rest of the guests had returned to their food and drink, and the buzz of conversation was fast becoming a din once more as they realized there was nothing of interest going on any longer. Sparing a glare for Potter, who returned it with almost equal force, Severus turned abruptly on Draco, cutting into his sycophantic conversation with Horace.

"I'd like a word with you, Draco," he said quickly. Ignoring Horace's admonishments about the spirit of the season, he gestured toward the door. "Follow me."++

Draco stared at him for a moment with a look of such loathing that Severus felt a frisson of fear run through him again; then Draco reluctantly followed him through the crowded room and out into the cool, quiet corridor. Without speaking, Severus led him to the very end of the hall before wrenching open the door to the Muggle Studies classroom.

"Inside," he said curtly.

Draco gave him a resentful sideways look. Severus closed the door behind them, warding it for good measure, then advanced on the boy, who was leaning sullenly against one of the desks. He paused before speaking however, uncertain what would be most effective. Anger? Sympathy? He'd spent all term trying to corner the boy, demanding that he come to his office after numerous Defense classes, but Draco had ignored every summons. Now that he had him, Severus found he had no idea how to inspire his confidence. He could not tell him the truth: that the Dark Lord had no illusions that Draco would succeed. That he would happily kill the entire Malfoy family when he failed. Clenching his jaw, Severus noted that the boy looked strained to the breaking point, his skin ashen, his eyes hollow.

Finally, after he had been silent long enough for Draco's attention to have wandered to the illustrations of Muggle appliances and electronics that covered the walls, Severus cleared his throat.

"I don't know what you are doing, Draco," he said quietly, "but I know for what ultimate goal you are doing it."

Draco stared at him. "You can't."

"I do."

Draco looked shaken; he ran a hand through his hair, clenching his fingers hard against the back of his own neck. "It doesn't matter," he muttered. "He told _me_ to do it, and I know how. You've got no reason to hound me."

At that, anger took over, and Severus took a step forward. "I most certainly _do_ have a reason to 'hound' you, boy! This is dangerous work you've been given to do, and your own mother-and my affection for you-have ensured that I am nearly as involved in it as you are." He forced himself to soften his tone. "I know you are competent, you are a credit to our House and to our Lord, but I've a great deal more experience than you. The incident with the necklace was bungled magnificently, surely you know this, and you cannot afford mistakes, Draco, because if you are expelled-"++

Draco scowled. "I didn't have anything to do with it, all right?"++

"I hope you are telling the truth," Severus said grimly, knowing he wasn't, "because it was both clumsy and foolish. Already you are suspected of having a hand in it."++

"Who suspects me?" Draco demanded. "For the last time, I didn't do it, okay?" He looked at Severus, his expression furious. Feeling desperate, Severus met his eyes and thought the incantation, and then he was in Draco's mind, but it was sealed, tightly closed against him.++

His suspicions were correct, then. "Ah," he murmured, carefully keeping all traces of alarm from his voice. "Aunt Bellatrix has been teaching you Occlumency, I see." And, of course, had not seen fit to inform him of the fact when he made that cursed vow. He leaned closer to Draco, looking straight into his eyes, not in another attempt to intrude on his mind, but to impart the seriousness of the conversation. "What thoughts are you trying to conceal from your master, Draco?"++

Draco's eyes widened, and even without using Legilimency, Severus could sense his panic. He had to know, deep within himself, that Severus would not speak of his new skill to the Dark Lord, but no doubt Bellatrix, always jealous of anyone else within the Dark Lord's favor, had been whispering insinuations in his ear since summer.

"I'm not trying to conceal anything from _him_, I just don't want _you_ butting in!" Draco said, his voice shaking.++

"So that is why you have been avoiding me all term? You have feared my interference?" Severus frowned. "You realize that, had anybody else failed to come to my office when I had told them repeatedly to be there, Draco-"++

Draco's face twisted into something that reminded Severus uncomfortably of his mad aunt. "So put me in detention!" he said. "Report me to Dumbledore!"++

Severus's chest felt leaden. "You know perfectly well I do not wish to do either of those things," he said heavily.

Draco stared at him for a minute as though trying to puzzle out the answer to a problem he didn't completely understand. His aunt's twisted expression was gone from his face, leaving behind only blond good looks and an arrogant lift to his shoulders that was pure Lucius. Severus's anger left him as swiftly as it had come; even fear deserted him, leaving behind an unutterable sadness. He was, he realized for the first time, watching Draco make his own mistakes over again, pledging loyalty to a madman. And, meeting the young man's wary eyes, Severus knew that any effort to change his mind was likely futile.

"Listen to me," he said finally, tightly. He thought of Albus; he thought of Narcissa's grief. "I am trying to help you. I swore to your mother I would protect you. I made the Unbreakable Vow, Draco-"++

"Looks like you'll have to break it, then, because I don't need your protection!" Draco spat. "It's my job, he gave it to me and I'm doing it, I've got a plan and it's going to work."++

Severus forced himself to keep his voice modulated. "What is your plan?"++

"It's none of your business!"++

"Why not confide in me?" he asked carefully. "I can-"++

Draco had begun edging away from him, toward the door to the classroom. "I know what you're up to!" he said. "You want to steal my glory!"++

Severus tightened his grip on the handle of his wand, though it was more an attempt to calm himself than because he was likely to use it. His nerve endings prickled, fines hairs along his arms and neck standing on end. _Draco, Draco_, his mind sang foolishly. Images flickered behind his eyes-Draco as a toddler, stumbling toward him across Malfoy Manor's elegant sitting room; Draco at his Sorting, at once proud and nervous. Draco kneeling before the Dark Lord, still and straight and utterly terrified as the Mark was branded into his arm. And now this-Draco facing a task that was beyond the capabilities of most men, and for all his obvious desperation, responding with the arrogance of a boy.

At once, Severus snapped his mental shields into place, aghast that he had allowed them to slip for even a few seconds. "You are speaking like a child," he said coldly, when he felt capable of speech again. He took a cautious step forward as Draco moved back, the two of them caught in some grotesque parody of a dance. "I quite understand that your father's capture and imprisonment has upset you, but-"++

He had hardly got the words out before Draco's last grip on his self-control slipped. His face strangely hard and soft at once, his jaw working, he wrenched open the door and was gone before Severus could complete his thought, much less stop him.

Feeling the odd, familiar vacancy of emotion that accompanied the use of his shields, Severus looked around the classroom. He'd had little reason to enter it for years now, but it was as familiar as it had been in his student days, only the styles of the automobiles depicted in the still photographs having changed. He sank into a student desk in the third row of seats, the same place he had occupied countless years before, staring blankly down at the scarred wooden desktop for long moments before finally rising, opening the door, and walking firmly down the hall.

. . . . .

Back in Horace's quarters, he retired to the shadows once more, arms folded. Much of the party seemed to have broken up into smallish clusters of people, all of which were surrounding one or more of the Potion professor's more famous guests. Those closest to Severus were grouped around a short, muscular woman whom he vaguely recognized from Quidditch posters. He sighed into the goblet he'd taken from a passing house-elf. Gods, the inane tedium of these people, students and adults alike.

He carefully skirted thoughts of Draco, of Narcissa and Albus and Bellatrix-fucking-Lestrange. He sipped his mead and glowered into the crowd and kept his shields in place. He ignored the ubiquitous headache clenching in his temples.

When Hermione Granger stumbled out from the belly of the throng, he instinctively stepped back farther into his corner. She looked. . . taller, he decided, watching her critically. That was no doubt why he hadn't immediately recognized her earlier in the evening. It must be the dress robes, deep, jewel-tone blue from neckline to hem that somehow lengthened her; or perhaps the way her hair was pulled away from her face, displaying her neck and shoulders. He frowned as she turned so that her body was facing him, even as she kept her head turned away, looking at something or someone over her shoulder.

In his anger after catching her mid-tryst, he apparently hadn't taken in her appearance very thoroughly. The bloody fool. He had trusted her to be more careful than she apparently was. For above the neckline of her robes, her Order pendant was conspicuously absent. Had she left it lying about her dormitory? Anger surged; then he frowned. There was. . . something. . .

Severus narrowed his eyes. A wound? It was difficult to see from where he stood, but there was most definitely a gash of some sort across the girl's breastbone. A scar. Where in hell would she have gotten such a thing? And how had he not noticed it before?

He gave an internal wince and immediately set his cup down. Clearly, he had had enough mead for one evening: Of-bloody-course he'd not noticed it; he could not recall having ever seen her in anything but her modest school clothes. She was his _student_.

Though theoretically he must have seen her in Muggle clothing at some point or another (at Headquarters, lurking with her trouble-making friends outside Order meetings, if not at Hogwarts), and likely she'd worn dress robes to the dreadful Yule Ball the year of the Triwizard Tournament, he couldn't actually remember for certain. Until she accosted him at the beginning of term with her determined face and demands for extra lessons, he'd paid little attention to her at all, when her hand wasn't frantically waving during class time.

But now. Now, thoughts of the blasted girl were never far from his mind.

Disgusted with himself, Severus shoved violently away from the wall and left the party, using his sharp elbows and sharper tongue to make his way through the masses of dim-witted inebriates.

He had made it half-way down the hall when he heard the clatter of a witch's impractical shoes behind him and a breathless voice calling his name.

He walked a few steps farther before bringing himself up short. Turning slowly, he watched the girl's progress toward him, the torchlight glinting off something at her ankle, the precarious knot of hair at the back of her head coming undone so that heavy strands escaped their pins and shorter curls sprang inelegantly about her face.

Severus tried to muster his earlier anger, but found that he hadn't the energy, and felt uncomfortably loose-limbed. His students were not the only ones who had imbibed too much mead.

"What do you want from me, Miss Granger?" he asked tiredly.

. . . . .

Snape was standing, thin-lipped, in a dark corner near the entrance to Slughorn's rooms. Hermione hadn't missed his exit-who could, after the dramatic way Draco was hauled into the party?-but she had missed his return. He must have come back while she was talking to Ginny, she reasoned; the other girl, feeling partly responsible for the fact that Hermione had spent most of the evening hiding from her date behind a tapestry, had brought her another cup of mead and some sort of honey-soaked sweet cake, and sat with her in her hiding place for the better part of half an hour. Hermione suspected that this wasn't entirely altruism on Ginny's part, however; she didn't seem in a hurry to get back to Dean.

Hermione had been feeling sillier and sillier as the evening wore on. What _had_ she been thinking, coming with McLaggen? Initially, after meeting him outside the Fat Lady's portrait, she had the hopeful thought that perhaps the night wouldn't be too dreadful after all. He'd looked quite presentable, really, his hair neatly combed and his dress robes emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders, and he'd offered her his arm in an almost courtly gesture. And though he'd blanched when he caught sight of her scar, he didn't actually say anything about it.

When he did open his mouth, leading her down one of the school's wide staircases, he immediately dispelled any thoughts of a pleasant evening from her mind. By the time they reached Slughorn's quarters, she was intimately acquainted with McLaggen's ambition to be Keeper for a professional Quidditch team ("Nothing rubbish like the Cannons, something really good"), and with his morning exercise routine ("Anyone who wants to play professionally is mental if he doesn't put in at least an hour a day, just to keep in shape!")

She was relieved when they reached the party, though the feeling was short-lived when she couldn't find Harry or Ginny in the crowd. McLaggen had tugged her in the direction of the refreshment table, past a member of the Weird Sisters and a gaunt, bored-looking man whom Hermione suspected, based on reading she had done, just might be a vampire. She accepted a cup of mead and watched, bemused, as McLaggen shoveled hor d'oerves into his mouth with a speed that almost put Ron to shame.

She hadn't even noticed the mistletoe until he was upon her with the apparent non sequitur of "Ol' Sluggy's making it easy on us blokes," big fingers hard against the back of her head, tongue, wet and tasting of pâté, filling her mouth.

Snape's voice behind her, interrupting them, had been simultaneously welcome and horrifying. She'd fled McLaggen's presence with a flimsy excuse about needing the toilet, and had been making herself scarce ever since, only once popping out from behind her tapestry hideaway to talk to Harry.

Tucking oneself away made one privy to all sorts of interesting things, she was finding; she'd been amusing herself watching McLaggen's expression grow increasingly irritated as he shoved his way through the crowd in search of her, when Ginny came in with food and drink. By the time the younger girl had left, Hermione had decided that generous amounts of Slughorn's mead made sitting out of sight by herself much more entertaining.

Snape's expression, or what little of it she could make out, ensconced as he was in the darkest corner of the room, was utterly fathomless, his posture utterly forbidding. The other partygoers were paying him no attention, but he was watching them all, black eyes flickering about the room, taking in the tumult from his pocket of solitude.

For the first time, Hermione found herself wondering whether his solitary life was wholly self-designed. He was the one person at Hogwarts, other than Peeves, whom all of the students and most of the staff went out of their way to avoid talking to. And yet. . . She remembered the way he'd waited for her outside Professor McGonagall's office several weeks ago. He didn't have to. Nor did he have to sit with her that night beside the lake. And those memories of Richard, the Slytherin boy Hermione had never noticed before, whose face now jumped out at her in the corridors between classes and from across the Great Hall during meal times; there had been an unmistakable undercurrent of affection in Snape's memories of him, cutting through the thick crust of his bitterness. He could not be so totally antisocial as his current isolation indicated.

It seemed to her that he must have a miserably lonely existence.

Not that there was anything she could do about it. She doubted he'd welcome her concern, particularly now that he thought her brazen and tasteless enough to snog Cormac McLaggen in front of half of bloody wizarding Britain. And even without that, Snape had made his opinion of her _abundantly_ clear in their last Legilimency lesson, the second of two they'd had since that weird, impromptu early-morning session in his classroom. He no longer showed her memories, and she had been utterly unable to breach his defenses, every attempt skittering off his shields. She could feel the twitch of his frustration augmenting her own; when she broke eye contact for the final time she felt woozily exhausted and somehow bruised.

"Miss Granger," Snape had sneered, "I will admit to a certain amount of disappointment. I will not coddle you any longer; you must do this on your own. If you cannot follow my instructions now, I've no confidence whatsoever that you shall ever follow them when Potter is the victim of your intrusions."

She'd wanted to cry. His instructions after their previous unproductive lesson had been typically Snape: curt and brief and managing somehow to imply that she was an imbecile of the first order if she didn't understand them.

"I know this goes against every molecule in your Gryffindor body, but if you are to be a competent Legilimens, you must not only understand your opponent's weaknesses, but be willing to exploit them." He was leaning over his desk with his hair hanging, heavy with grease, on either side of his face; he looked as though he hadn't slept in days. But when he met her eyes his were snapping with something Hermione knew she ought to be wary of; she had her shields up just in time, the pressure of his presence in her mind filling her. Images began to flicker in front of her, but they were not her memories; her Occlumency hadn't slipped. A dark-haired child, running splay-legged down an alley; a young Lucius Malfoy; a red-haired girl skipping rocks on the surface of the Black Lake while an ugly, hawk-nosed boy looked on. This last was accompanied by a longing so intense she felt she might burst with it.

Unconsciously, Hermione loosened her hold on her shields, straining after the image of the students by the lake; that memory disappeared as if it had been Vanished, and Snape thrust forward past her weakened defenses, and then it was her memories playing out before them both as they hadn't since she'd mastered Occlumency several weeks earlier. His intrusion was thorough; every time she tried to erect her shields, he knocked them down, following the thread of her curiosity through images of her as a child poring over her parents' biology texts, and her as a teen mapping the length and shape of Victor's hard-on above the fabric of his robes, culminating in a series of recent memories wherein she snuck glances at _him_ during Defense and across the Great Hall at dinner, the questions she continually asked herself buring across her mind to his: What were his secrets? And how could she learn them?

When he left her mind, Snape was panting, his eyes furious and his feet planted wide to keep him steady, as though the Legilimency had physically weakened him. Hermione's face was hot with embarrassment.

"Your weakness is your thrice-damned curiosity," he spat, and walked stiff-limbed into his office, slamming the door.

. . . . .

It was nearing eleven, and Hermione was growing cramped and restless behind the tapestry. The party was showing no signs of dying down, however, and she finally decided that she would have to brave the crowd-and her date.

She spotted McLaggen's tall form easily, and immediately made for the other side of the room where Snape happened to be standing, sidling between groups of people and muttering apologies each time she stepped on someone's feet. Shoving her way between two stout witches who were ignoring her polite, "Pardon me," she was finally free of the crowd when a high, clear voice made her turn.

"Hermione!" Luna was standing on tip-toes on the other side of the Wall of Witches. "Have you seen Harry?"

Hermione shook her head. "Not recently."

Luna ducked under one witch's arm as she lifted a forkful of pudding to her lips. "Neither have I," she said, smiling.

"Oh. Er." Hermione paused, but the other girl didn't seem inclined to elaborate. "Are you enjoying the party?" she asked finally.

"Oh, yes." Luna tucked her hair behind her ears and gazed up at the ceiling. "I've been talking to Professor Trelawney quite a lot; she's very interested in Daddy's theories about Minister Scrimgeour."

"That's nice." Hermione scanned the crowd behind Luna, eyes widening when she realized she could no longer see Cormac. It was definitely time to leave. "I'm sorry, Luna, but I've got to go-"

"The Nargles didn't bother you, did they?" Luna asked, fixing her pale eyes on Hermione's face. "I saw you kissing Cormac under the mistletoe. It would have been a good opportunity for a Nargle."

"Um. . . no. . . I don't think so," Hermione said, struggling not to laugh.

Luna nodded seriously. "That's good. It didn't look like you were enjoying the kissing very much; it would have been a shame if a Nargle bothered you, too."

Snape had disappeared when Hermione turned around. She frowned, but headed for the door, figuring she ought to make good on her escape before McLaggen noticed her.

Leaving Slughorn's over-crowded, over-warm rooms, the cooler air and sleepy quiet of the corridor was a welcome relief. The only sound was that of staccato footsteps, growing farther away. She glanced down the hall to her left; it was Snape, unmistakable even without the heavy flap of his teaching robes. His black dress robes, cut slimmer and made of a finer fabric edged elegantly in satin, flowed rather than flapped, giving him the look of human ink.

Without thinking, Hermione picked up her skirt and hurried after him.

"Professor Snape!" she called.

It was only when he actually stopped, turning to face her, that she realized she must have lost her mind.

"What do you want from me, Miss Granger?" he asked.

Hermione opened her mouth, but no sound emerged. She stopped a few feet away from him, still clutching her robes in both fists as though she was crossing water and didn't want her hem to get wet. Snape's eyes dropped from hers, grazed her scar, and lowered further until they rested on her feet. His brow furrowed, and he looked back up at her, some question contained just behind his eyes; but he didn't speak.

She dropped her robes and clasped her hands behind her back. The seconds stretched out between them, and she could feel his growing impatience buzzing like something tangible. She felt immeasurably stupid; there was no reason for her to run after him. None. Her shoulders tingled; so did her cheeks.

He was still waiting.

Digging her nails into the palms of her hands, she took a deep breath. _In for a Knut, in for a Galleon. . ._

"I. . . want you to stop glaring at me, sir," she said.

Immediately she wanted to take the words back, knowing their impertinence. That wasn't even what he meant by his question.

An expression that might have been hurt flickered across Snape's face. He pulled his shoulders back.

"I am not glaring at you," he said stiffly.

Hermione blinked. He wasn't, come to that. Nor had he been when he first turned around. "Oh. I don't mean right now, sir. I mean in general. During our lessons, and-and such." She swallowed. "I know you don't want to teach me, and I understand why, but-I know how much you dislike me, dislike all of us. It's just different from class, being the only one on the receiving end of it."

Snape drew the edges of his robes about him like a shield. They were cut differently than his everyday robes, the collar just as high on the sides but open in front from just under his chin until a bit above the hollow of his throat, where it was held closed by a filigree clasp. His Adam's apple bobbed convulsively.

"Indeed?" he said softly. "Perhaps I would not be so prone to glaring if I was not being subjected to your inability to accept your own incompetence." He stepped forward, lowering his voice until it was little more than a bass thrum in the air between them. "I told you when you made your ridiculous request, Miss Granger, that not everyone is suited to it."

"I know," Hermione said, biting her lip. "But I've been thinking about it, sir, quite a lot, really, and I think the problem might be that we've been approaching it all wrong."

Watching her professor's face twist with outrage, Hermione had the startling epiphany that, though she felt the fear associated with the possibility that her theory could be wrong, somewhere in the last several weeks she had lost her fear of _him_.

"Indeed," he growled.

She decided to take that as an invitation to continue. "Um. . . Yes. Sir. It's just that-well, you told me to go at this as I would go at an opponent. But, Professor-I don't see Harry as my opponent, and yet, in theory, I ought to be able to Legilimize him."

Snape's mouth hardened still further, and he cast a quick nonverbal spell, not taking his eyes off her for a moment. "Idiot!" he hissed-now he was glaring at her. "Do the words, 'These lessons are secret' mean _nothing_ to you?"

But Hermione was frowning. _Muffliato_. . . She was all but certain that was what he'd cast. He couldn't be a contemporary of the Half-Blood Prince-Harry's book was too old.

Snape cut into her thoughts. "You may not consider Potter your enemy, Miss Granger, but he is not the one whose mind you have been trying unsuccessfully to breach." He folded his arms in a manner that would have been smug were he a less dignified man.

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "But-I don't consider you my enemy either."

Snape appeared to have no answer to that, averting his face and letting his hair swing forward. Hermione felt strangely coiled, the mead still sending delicious tingling sensations up and down her arms, her head light. She was so focussed on the man in front of her that when the door to Slughorn's rooms opened, she didn't immediately react.

Snape did. A length of ebony flicked intricately through the air, canceling his earlier spell, and all uncertainty vanished from his demeanor. In a matter of a second, _Snape_ was back, robes no longer shielding him but moving impressively about his body as he whirled on her, his face full of cruelty.

"Five points from Gryffindor for wasting my time," he said dismissively before glancing casually over her shoulder. Hermione turned her head as well; two students were making their way toward them down the hall.

"Mr. Zabini," Snape said, then nodded toward the tall boy's date, a Fifth Year Slytherin girl in robes of burgundy velvet. "Miss Hathaway." Then, without looking at Hermione at all, he strode off in the other direction.

The Slytherins barely looked at her as they passed, and she stared blankly after their professor, trying to comprehend the swiftness of his transformation.

. . . . .

The owl that interrupted Severus's solitary breakfast on Christmas morning was disgruntled, no doubt having expected him to be in the Great Hall with his colleagues and the few students unfortunate enough to be at Hogwarts over the holiday. But Severus had been unable to stomach the thought of watching Albus hold court with his usual holly wreath circling the brim of his hat, and his blackened hand holding his morning goblet of pumpkin juice; instead, he Flooed the kitchens, and had just finished sopping up the last of his egg with a slice of toast when he was startled by an impatient rapping at one of the windows set high in the wall of his dungeon chambers.

A flick of his wand unlatched the window, allowing the owl and a gust of bitterly cold air through. Frowning, Severus gave the owl a bit of his toast crust and removed the small parcel attached to its leg.

It was wrapped in shiny Muggle paper covered in images of St. Nicholas, a being Severus had not thought about since before he entered Hogwarts as a student. He set it on his coffee table and stood back, glowering at it for a moment, before decisively aiming his wand and hurling as many jinx-detection spells at it as he could think of.

When nothing happened, he threw himself into his armchair and watched it suspiciously for several moments before finally picking it up and tearing the paper delicately along its seam.

A note written on a piece of lined Muggle paper fluttered to the floor; Severus ignored it in favor of staring at the small bottle to which it had been attached. Paracetamol? _What the-_

The bottle was topped by one of those ridged, Muggle, idiot-proof caps. Severus pressed down on it, hard, and was gratified to feel it turn in his hand. The tablets he shook out were an unnatural shade of red, coated in a slick dye, garish against his lined, pale palm.

Severus stared at them for a moment. They reminded him of the tablets his father had taken almost every morning of his childhood after a night out at the pub. For spite, when he was about thirteen, Severus had poured the entire contents of a bottle down the toilet, taking malicious pleasure in the action and the knowledge that he could brew his father a far superior headache reliever or hangover potion, were he so inclined. Which he was not.

Tipping the tablets back into their container, Severus picked up the note from his rug. The handwriting was immediately familiar, but if anything, that only made him more uneasy.

_Dear Professor Snape,_

_I hope you will not think me impertinent for sending these to you, sir. They're called tablets-they're a sort of Muggle pain reliever. They're not as quick-acting as a headache potion, but I remembered you saying those aren't effective._

_The label explains all about dosage._

_Happy Christmas!_

_Sincerely,_

_Hermione Granger_

. . . . .

The House tables had been taken away at dinner, the entire staff and the fifteen or so students who had remained grouped around a single table at the center of the Great Hall. There were more Slytherins left than members of any other House; they were sitting sullenly at one end of the table. Severus sat silently beside them, ignoring Pomona and Horace, who were on his other side, discussing modifications to the greenhouses.

Albus was seated at the head of the table, breathing in deeply of the scent of cloves that filled the air and smiling with satisfaction at the table, fairly groaning under the weight of the feast, and the enormous, brightly-decorated trees that loomed over them all. He had met Severus's eye only once over the course of the meal, and then for only a short moment, as though the Headmaster was as uncomfortable with the reality of their situation as Severus himself.

When the meal was over, Severus did not linger, but shoved away from the table with a only a few terse words to his Slytherins. He told himself that he was merely eager to escape from Dumbledore, tucking into his Christmas pudding with a gusto that hurt to watch.

The sight of Miss Granger's note, however, and that squat, white bottle sitting so incongruously atop a pile of proper parchments, made it impossible to deny that he had another reason for not wanting to linger upstairs. He had managed to ignore her gift all day, keeping a disciplined eye on his book all afternoon, not glancing at the bottle once when he swept from his rooms on his way to the Great Hall for dinner. And yet it had never been far from his mind; this absurd, strangely thoughtful gesture. His first instinct was to be suspicious of it, and his next was to be insulted, that she would suggest he ingest anything so blatantly harmful as a Muggle medicine. He hadn't swallowed a tablet since he started at Hogwarts; he couldn't imagine the Healers at St. Mungo's dispensing medicinal potions that came with a list of side effects as long or alarming as was attached to these simple headache relievers.

And yet. He could not shake the feeling that the gift was kindly meant. He had spent a great deal of time inside her head, after all, and as she had had the temerity to point out, this gave him rather more insight than he was comfortable with into the way she thought. Into who she was. Cunning though she might be on occasion, Hermione Granger was not the sort of person to give a gift with an ulterior motive in mind.

Bloody hell.

He'd little experience with receiving presents. Albus gave all the staff the same expensive bottle of aged Ogden's every year, for once deferential to the fact that few of them had retained their youthful preference for the cloying sweetness of Butterbeer, as he had. Several of his Slytherins would usually give him tokens of their esteem, wrapped in heavy paper and placed on his desk before they left for the holiday. Thanking them was simple enough-a nod to each in the Entrance Hall as he or she returned from the Hogwarts Express at the start of the next term-and Albus required no thanks at all. But Miss Granger. . . Severus pressed the heels of his hands against his eye sockets, remembering their strange conversation on the night of Horace's awful party, and the flash of silver above her shoe as she ran toward him. He felt full of something uncomfortable and unfamiliar.

He didn't want any more strangeness between them than there already was-he might go mad. He could not _nod_ at her as he could at the Slytherins, and a private thank-you was completely out of the question. And without acknowledgement of some kind, she was certain to return to school brimming with concerned queries about the state of his head and whether the tablets had helped at all.

Severus moved to his desk, rifled through the drawers for a moment for a piece of parchment. He plucked up his favorite quill and dipped it in the inkwell, then stared at the blank parchment for several minutes. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration.

. . . . .

Hermione's mother woke her, shrieking, on Boxing Day. _"Hermione-Jane-Granger! Get-down-here-this-instant!"_

She had been comfortably bundled under a pile of quilts, still gloriously full from Christmas dinner, Crookshanks burrowed between her feet in a nest of blankets. The sound of her mother's raised voice galvanized her from sleep to wakefulness in seconds; choking on fear, she grabbed her wand and pounded down the stairs in her bare feet, pajamas twisted, snarled hair streaming out behind her.

"Mum!" she screamed, and leapt down the last three stairs on pure adrenaline, racing into the kitchen, where she fully expected to be faced with at least one Death Eater.

Instead, what she saw was her mother, brandishing a spatula, defending the hearty breakfast of sausage and eggs that she'd been frying from the brown Hogwarts owl circling her head.

After a second of stunned silence in which her brain struggled to comprehend the difference between this scene and the one she had been expecting, Hermione stepped forward. "It expects a treat, Mum," she explained. Her parents didn't have an owl of their own-her mother thought keeping birds in the house was unsanitary. They generally wrote to Hermione using the same owls she sent to them from Hogwarts with instructions to wait around to see if her parents wanted to send a reply. Now she snagged a bit of sausage, holding it out to the bird, who accepted it with a disgruntled hoot before circling the kitchen once and flapping its way back out of the open window.

Her mother lowered the spatula slowly. "I know it wanted a treat," she said. "I just didn't realize it might confuse _its_ treat and _our_ breakfast." In her other hand was a scroll of parchment, now crushed slightly. "Here-it's for you."

"Not all of them care for owl treats," Hermione said absently, taking the scroll. Her heart, which had returned to its normal rhythm after her terrified rush down the stairs, sped up again when she recognized the handwriting. She tore the wax seal hurriedly while her mother pretended to concentrate on turning the eggs, while actually watching her daughter covertly from under her fringe.

_Miss Granger,_

_I am not, as you seem to assume, unacquainted with Muggle forms of medication, and there is a reason I have not resorted to such crude measures: I value my liver rather more than my comfort._

_The thought was appreciated, nevertheless._

_~ SS_

There was a post-script several inches down the page: _Five points to Gryffindor for finding a solution to the problem of your necklace._

_. . . . ._

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed! And a special thank-you to Zuse for reminding me that Brits and Americans often call the same medicine by different names! ;-)


	12. These yearnings why are they?

Disclaimer: None of the characters belong to me, unfortunately.

. . . . .

The day before the end of the winter holiday, Hermione's pendant flared hot.

She had been reading at one end of the sofa while her father dozed at the other. Her mother was puttering about the house, tidily putting away the Christmas decorations.

For a brief moment, as she pulled herself out of her book and back into the physical world, Hermione didn't make the connection between the sudden warmth against her sternum and the necklace that rested there. She glanced up at the fireplace and frowned slightly, seeing that it was cold.

Then the implications hit her, and she sprang up from the couch so quickly that she startled her father awake.

"Whazzit?" he said, removing his glances and rubbing at the inner corners of his eyes.

"Nothing, Dad." She darted into the toilet off the hallway and yanked her sweatshirt over her head. Heart pounding, her fingers fumbled with the chain's clasp; then it was off, and she tapped it with her wand, holding the resulting tiny book up to the light of the lamp over the sink.

_Headquarters, 6 o'clock_.

Mouth dry, Hermione looked at her watch. Just under an hour, then. And she'd promised her mum she'd help with dinner. A bubble of hysterical laughter formed in her chest. For weeks--weeks!--she'd been waiting for that bloody pendant to warm and now, when she'd all but decided that either the Order didn't meet, ever, or else that she wasn't actually being included when they did, Dumbledore decided to hold a meeting when she had no chance of getting to it.

Her father was unfortunately looking rather alert when she re-entered the room. "All right, love?" he asked.

She forced a smile. "Of course," she said, settling back on the couch and opening her book. After a moment of watching her with undisguised concern, her dad picked the newspaper up off the coffee table and buried himself in it.

Hermione glanced surreptitiously at her watch. There really was no way for her to make it to Grimmauld Place; with no Apparition license and her parents' house unconnected to the Floo Network, she'd have to go the Muggle way, and that would take ages, especially taking into account post-holiday traffic. Bugger. Bugger and shit. They'd made plans to get her to meetings while school was in session, but it hadn't occurred to her to ask what would happen in the event of a holiday meeting.

A sharp rapping on the front door startled Hermione out of herself. She jumped to her feet, holding her wand in one hand behind her back.

"I'll get it, Dad," she said hastily, and opened the door a fraction.

Professor McGonagall was standing on the stoop, looking utterly incongruous against the background of Hermione's parents' tree-lined, Muggle street. In a concession to her surroundings, McGonagall had foregone her usual pointed witch's hat, but was still dressed in tartan robes and a heavy wool cloak, giving her the appearance of a slightly dotty, if steely-eyed, late-coming holiday caroler.

"Miss Granger," she said, without smiling. "Good, I'm so glad to find you at home." She shifted, looking at something behind Hermione. "Mr. Granger? I don't know if you remember me. I am Minerva McGonagall, one of your daughter's professors and Hogwarts' Deputy Headmistress."

Hermione stepped hastily aside as her father thrust his hand forward, grasping Professor McGonagall's in a hearty shake. "Of course, Professor! Please, come in, get out of the cold." Hermione stepped farther back, letting her father usher the older woman into the house.

"Would you like some tea?" he asked. "Jane and Hermione were going to start dinner soon; surely you'll join us?"

McGonagall shook her head. "No, thank you. I'm actually here to escort Miss Granger to a meeting--"

Hermione's insides, which had knotted themselves several times over in the moments since she opened the door, tightened further. "--Of the Transfiguration Club!" she interrupted.

McGonagall raised her eyebrows, snapping her mouth shut.

Alan Granger looked back and forth between his daughter and her teacher. "Oh?" he said finally. "I didn't know you'd joined any clubs at school."

"Yes, well." Hermione felt her face flush, wishing, not for the first time, that she was a better liar. "It's a pretty new thing."

"I take it this means you'll be missing dinner?"

"Oh--yeah. I'm sorry, Dad. I, um, forgot about the meeting. Apologize to Mum for me? I don't know how late I'll be, these things can go long when we get talking about theory. . ." She trailed off, feeling slightly sick to her stomach.

Her father was frowning, but he pulled her into a quick hug. "All right then. Have fun, love."

Hermione inhaled the slightly musty scent of his hair, felt the familiar tickle of his beard against her cheek. "Thanks," she whispered, then pulled away quickly, guilt wrestling with relief in her gut that it was her father, and not her mother, who saw McGonagall arrive. Her mother would never have let her leave after so preposterous a story.

Her relief, however, was short-lived; McGonagall stepped forward quickly before Hermione could open the front door.

"Miss Granger," she said. "We needn't go quite yet. In fact, I have a favor to ask of you and your parents.

Hermione could feel her blood beating in her ears. "Oh?" she stammered.

McGonagall nodded briskly. "Yes." She turned back to Hermione's father. "I think I would like a cup of tea after all, Mr. Granger," she said. "And perhaps, if your wife is available to join us. . . ?"

"Yes, of course," he said, casting a quick frown at Hermione when she made a quiet, choked noise. "Right this way, Professor." He led her to the sofa, and told Hermione with a sharp look to stay with her.

McGonagall arranged her robes neatly about her then turned to look at Hermione. "Miss Granger," she said, her brogue heavy with disapproval. "Am I right to assume from your interruption earlier that your parents do not know about your membership in the Order?"

Hermione swallowed. "Yes, ma'am. I--they don't know about the Order at all."

The older woman pursed her lips. "Do they know anything?"

"Yes, a--a little. They know there's a dark wizard. They know he wants to kill Harry. I don't think. . . . I never told them everything, and they don't receive the Prophet, not after Rita Skeeter started telling lies about Harry and me in our fourth year. They don't know about the--the Ministry. Or that I've joined the fight officially now; they don't even really know that there is a fight. Before I turned seventeen, I was afraid they wouldn't let me go back to Hogwarts, if they knew. Now, I've been keeping things from them for so long. . ."

"It is very hard on Muggle parents," McGonagall said quietly. "Not being allowed into their children's world. I truly cannot imagine it." Then she turned brisk and decisive once more. "I won't tell them, Miss Granger, though I think you ought to consider it before things get much worse. Particularly as my request might make things--" She straightened suddenly; Hermione turned to see her father entering the sitting room, laden with a tea tray. Her mother followed, meeting McGonagall's smile with a wary one of her own.

"Professor," she said, perching on the edge of a squashy armchair while her husband poured tea for all of them. "What a pleasure to see you again." She cut a quick, worried glance at Hermione, who was silent, clenching and unclenching her fingers within the long sleeves of her sweatshirt.

McGonagall accepted her mug of tea with a nod of thanks. "It's lovely to see you again, Mrs. Granger," she said. "I only have a few minutes, but as I needed to pick up Hermione for our meeting, I thought it might be simplest if she returned to Hogwarts with me tonight."

Hermione could tell from the lack of questions that her father had filled her mum in about the meeting; she could also tell, from the suspicious look on her mother's face, that she found it strange for a school club to be meeting during the holiday.

_Professor Snape would be ashamed of me_, Hermione thought inanely, stifling a giggle at the thought of the scathing remarks he'd surely level at her, if he knew about her unlikely cover story.

"I know Hermione has told you about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," McGonagall continued. When met with her parents' blank looks, she raised her eyebrows at Hermione.

"Lord Voldemort," Hermione said quietly. Calling him by anything but his name had seemed embarrassing, even childish, when she told her parents about him, as if the wizarding world was less hardy and even more superstitious than theirs. They already had trouble imagining the things she told them about, particularly as she had been unable to perform magic at home when she was underage.

McGonagall stiffened when Hermione spoke the name, but her parents nodded, and the professor continued.

"Things have become rather fraught of late. In order to ensure the students' safety, Headmaster Dumbledore has arranged for Hogwarts' Floo connections to be opened tomorrow, rather than having them return on the train. Our records indicate that you are not connected to the Floo network, and since Hermione is accompanying me to our meeting this evening, I hoped you would allow her to come back to Hogwarts tonight, rather than having one of our staff come back to fetch her in the morning."

"The meeting is not at the school, then?" Jane asked.

A pause. "No. Harry Potter was kind enough to let us use his home."

"Harry's part of an academic club?" Hermione winced at the skepticism in her mother's voice, wishing she hadn't been so vitriolic in talking about Harry and Ron's attitudes toward schoolwork.

"No," McGonagall said again, then stopped, looking rather helplessly at Hermione.

Hermione clenched her jaw. Damn. "I--it's not a school club. It's a resistance group, headed by Professor Dumbledore. Against Voldemort."

Her parents stared at her, dumbfounded, for a long moment. "I see. A. . . political group, then?" Jane Granger's voice was tight, and she looked at McGonagall. "Why is Headmaster Dumbledore allowing children to take part?"

McGonagall sighed. "Hermione is no longer considered a child in our community, Mrs. Granger. Although she is still a student, she is also a good friend of Harry Potter, and it is around him that our resistance has been built." She leaned forward, setting her tea carefully on the coffee table. "Believe me, I was no happier than you when Dumbledore told me his plans to allow Miss Granger to join. But she is a remarkable young woman, determined to use her many talents for the good of the world." She aimed a severe look at Hermione's mother over the tops of her spectacles. "The entire world, Mrs. Granger, not just the wizarding one. If He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named succeeds, Muggles will be in terrible danger."

She glanced at the clock on the mantle. "I'm sorry to be so abrupt, but we really must go. For the sake of secrecy, Dumbledore rarely gives us much notice before these meetings." She rose. "Thank you very much for the tea. Miss Granger, I assume you can have your things packed momentarily? That is, if your parents are amenable to your returning to school this evening?"

"Wait." Alan stood as well. "Professor--Hermione, love--you can't possibly expect us to let you just walk out of here. We need to know what you're doing."

Hermione blinked against the tears suddenly stinging her eyes. "I can't tell you. I'm so, so sorry, but I can't--it's too dangerous for you to know specifics, in case. . ." She trailed off, her voice, high and cracking when she began speaking, sinking into a whisper.

Her mother looked back and forth between Hermione and McGonagall. "Dangerous to whom?" she demanded. "Us? You? Your friends? Hermione--you're seventeen years-old!" She turned on McGonagall. "I don't understand how you could allow this! We trusted her to you!"

McGonagall's expression softened, just barely, though she glanced once more at the clock. "Mrs. Granger, I understand your concern, but--"

"My _concern_? I hardly understand it, Professor!" She folded her arms and glared at Hermione, her eyes full of desperate anger. "I cannot let you leave this house without explaining yourself to us. I need to know--" Her voice cracked, and she swallowed, looking away.

Hermione had buried her face in her hands. "I'm sorry," she whispered, finally looking up. "Mum, I can't tell you. I won't put you and Dad in that kind of danger--"

"_What_ kind of danger?" Jane screeched. "Hermione, _we don't know what you're talking about_!"

McGonagall looked stricken. "Miss Granger, if you would prefer not to attend the meeting. . ."

Undecided, Hermione stood very still for a moment. She couldn't leave, she thought desperately, couldn't go back to school like this after watching the chasm she'd feared for so long yawning, wide and deep, between herself and her parents.

But then she thought of Harry and his theory that Dumbledore was trying to prepare him for something; she remembered the deeply _right_ feeling that had settled inside her when Dumbledore spoke of the power of knowledge during her initiation into the Order. The more knowledge she had, the better prepared she would be to help Harry when the time came; the better able she would be to protect her parents, and Muggles like them.

And she thought, oddly, of Snape, of the unexpected confidence he'd shown in her when he advocated her membership in the Order. Somehow, it seemed that if she didn't attend, just because the choice to do so was difficult, she would be demonstrating that his faith in her was unjustified.

"No," she said slowly. "I need to go."

Her mother opened her mouth to speak, but Hermione shook her head violently. "No, Mum. I don't--I don't mean this the way it sounds, but you can't understand what we're facing. I have to help, if I can." She started moving toward the door before she could change her mind, grabbing her jacket from its peg. "This hasn't got anything to do with school; it's my decision to make. I wish. . . I wish I could tell you more, but I can't." Stuffing her arms into the jacket's sleeves, she said hurriedly, "I'll owl you when I get back to school. I can't write about this in too much detail, but--I'll let you know I've got back safely, okay?"

Raising her wand, she Summoned Crookshanks' cage and her trunk, which was already packed for the next day with all but a few items. These she Summoned separately, quickly stuffing them into the trunk. She scooped the half-Kneazle off the cushion he'd been slumbering on, putting him in the cage unceremoniously and ignoring his hiss of disapproval.

She finally met her parents' eyes after shrinking her trunk and pocketing it, and hefting Crookshanks' cage. Her mother looked fierce, her father stunned.

"I love you," she said quietly. "I really am sorry. For--everything. And not helping with dinner--"

Her mother let out an exasperated noise.

McGonagall was already standing beside the door. "Mr. and Mrs. Granger--I do apologize for coming and going so abruptly. The tea was lovely, and I assure you, Hermione will be safely at Hogwarts tonight."

Jane swallowed and looked away from them, but Alan stepped forward and shook McGonagall's hand, then buffed Hermione's forehead in a brief kiss.

"Have a good term, love," he said, then stepped back and put an arm about his wife.

Hermione nodded, and wrenched open the door. Her eyes were burning, her cheeks stiff, but it wasn't until she and her professor were outside in the frigid air that she realized she was crying.

McGonagall allowed her a moment, then squeezed her shoulder bracingly.

"Come, child," she said.

. . . . .

Severus sat at the long kitchen table at Number 12, Grimmauld Place, his cold hands cupped around a mug of steaming tea. Molly Weasley was bustling about, brewing tea for those who wanted it and with a few flicks of her wand, managing a number of pots whose contents were burbling away on the stove like so many potions.

All about him was chaos as Order members shouted greetings to one another across the room. These events, like an unbalanced equation, were comprised largely of Gryffindors. It was pointless to hope that they could merely converse quietly before the meeting began.

"Minerva! Oh, good, you're here!" Molly called over the general cacophony. Severus looked up sharply; Minerva was standing in the doorway, hands to her hair, smoothing back the few strands that had dared to become wind-mussed. "Would you like some tea? I'll have supper on the table in no time--"

"No, thank you, Molly," Minerva said. She stepped to the side, looking over her shoulder. "Miss Granger? Tea?"

Those nearest the two women stopped talking. Miss Granger was standing rather uncertainly behind Minerva, taking in the other people in the room. She was dressed casually, in jeans and an enormous hooded sweatshirt whose sleeves were so long they covered her hands, and she looked excessively out of place, even though Arthur was wearing one of the ugly jumpers his wife knitted, and Lupin was in his usual battered Muggle suit. When her eyes lit upon Severus, their expression changed from one of nervousness to--relief? He permitted himself the barest of nods, which he masked by quickly looking down into his mug.

"Hermione?" Molly said, her voice full of censure. She looked at Dumbledore and said accusingly, "I didn't realize she would be here."

Albus smiled blandly. "Miss Granger is out newest member," he said, his voice carrying over the few lingering conversations. "And I believe it goes without saying that her inclusion in the Order is a secret that must not leave this room." He gestured to the end of the table. "Come, my dear, sit."

She sat gingerly beside one of the twins--Fred? Even now, after years of teaching them, Severus could not always tell the wretched boys apart. From along the table other Order members greeted her, Lupin going so far as to lean over the table to give her a brief, tight hug. Severus gritted his teeth and looked away.

The twins started peppering her with questions, but she was saved from responding by Dumbledore rising from his place at the head of the table. Slowly, the din of conversation quieted.

"It is good to see all of you," he said, his face grave. "Though I wish it was for a more joyful purpose. One of our members has. . . difficult tidings." He nodded at Severus, who flicked his eye around the table. Most of the Order members were ignoring him.

These meetings were so different from Death Eater gatherings, where he was spoken to, respected, though by men and women he had no respect for. Here, he was generally despised and distrusted. His posture was different; he was hunched over his tea as if trying to avoid notice, the way he used to sit as a boy. Disgusted with himself, Severus straightened his spine and raked his gaze along the table once more, feeling his face settle into familiar lines of sneering superiority.

"The Dark Lord has decided to increase attacks on Muggles," he said. Bile rose suddenly into his throat, and he swallowed hard, strengthening his shields against the images pounding away at the sides of his skull. "Last week, he instructed his followers, both those who have taken the Mark and those who have not been so favored, to destroy a number of village churches throughout Britain during services."

His voice had remained steady as he spoke. Across the table, he could tell that the Granger girl had frozen; he couldn't bring himself to look directly at her, instead defiantly meeting Shacklebolt's accusing stare.

Minerva recovered herself first. "Do you know what they are planning next?" She didn't ask whether he had been involved in the attack; she had to know that he had left the castle several days before, the Mark burning almost as painfully as when he first took it, so strong was the great serpent's glee. He hadn't returned until that afternoon.

"No. The Dark Lord, like many leaders"--with a covert glance at Albus-- "rarely entrusts the entirety of a plan to all of his followers. This last attack was coordinated by another member of the Inner Circle." He paused, feeling faintly nauseated. "The Dark Lord conceived the assault for its symbolic nature, I believe."

Nymphadora Tonks, grey-faced, asked, "What does that mean?" Severus was certain the underlying question was, What did you do?

He looked into his tea. "The Dark Lord said that Muggle. . . superstitions. . . must be eradicated. He believes their insistence on clinging to such things has contributed to, if not directly caused, Muggle persecution of witches and wizards in the past." He breathed deeply through his nose for a moment. "Attacking while they were engaged in religious activities was. . . _appropriate_, he said."

There was a tense silence. Severus did not have to look around to know that the others were watching him with varying degrees of disgust. Then Moody spoke up from his corner. "What about you, Snape? Any idea when your Dark Lord'll ask you to lead one of these jaunts?"

Severus tightened his grip on his mug. "No," he said, as blandly as he could.

Albus intervened before Moody could respond. "More of the innocent are going to be hurt before this is done," he said, rather grandly. Only Dumbledore, Severus thought with some bitterness, could make so obvious a statement sound like a proclamation. "Now, as we are all gathered, we may as well discuss other business. Remus--"

There was a restless movement from across the table. Severus glanced up and cringed inwardly; Miss Granger was holding her hand tentatively aloft as if she were in class, the expression on her face one of mingled fear and determination.

Albus raised his eyebrows, his mouth twitching slightly. "Yes, my dear?"

She lowered her hand, looking embarrassed. "Yes, sir. I just--I don't understand--aren't we going to talk about options for stopping the next attacks?"

Each and every Order member turned as one to look at the Headmaster. "Professor Snape has already told us that he has no way of knowing in advance when another attack will come," he pointed out.

"No way, my eye," Moody muttered.

"Alastor, please," Dumbledore said sharply. He turned back to the girl, who was frowning. "We cannot defend against something we know nothing about."

"Yes, but. . ." She swallowed. Severus watched her from behind his hair, torn between exasperation and sympathy; this was likely the first time she had been on anything approaching equal footing with the people in the room. He was surprised she was speaking up at all.

Then she looked directly at him. "Professor, when Vol--he--calls you for the attacks, is there any chance that you'll have a few seconds in which to contact the Order?"

Severus narrowed his eyes, sensing where she was headed. "Provided I am alone at the time, yes, there are seconds," he said. "But I never know to where I will be called until I arrive there. The. . . Mark. . .acts as a Portkey."

"Oh, of course!" Her eyes widened fractionally, then she frowned, thinking. "I'd forgotten. . . That's a fascinating bit of magic," she murmured, more to herself, Severus thought, than to anyone else. "But it doesn't. . ." She looked up, much of her earlier self-consciousness forgotten in the face of her mental wanderings.

"Sir," she said, addressing Dumbledore, "perhaps if our pendants were charmed, like yours, Professor Snape could alert the Order in the event of another attack."

Albus stroked his beard. "Miss Granger, Professor Snape has already told us that Voldemort does not tell his followers ahead of time--"

"No, no!" she said earnestly. "I meant, sir, that there's a chance he'll have time to send a message after her arrives at the--um--destination. It wouldn't be nearly as conspicuous as a Patronus. And if the necklaces work the way I think they do, it would only take a second to alert the Order--or just you, if you think it safer, sir--and then we would have a chance to thwart--"

Dumbledore held up his injured hand. "I must stop you there. I cannot risk Professor Snape's place as a spy within Voldemort's ranks, and what you propose is risky at best and disastrous at worst."

The girl's brow furrowed. Her voice, when she spoke, was even, but Severus noted her tightly-clenched fingers, the knuckles white. "Sir, I mean no disrespect, but it seems worth the risk, to at least charm out pendants. I think Professor Snape is capable of assessing whether the danger is too great to use his. There are people--Muggles--who can't--they can't. . ." Her jaw clenched and she stopped talking for a moment. The room was utterly silent, even the Weasley twins sitting perfectly still. "And Professor Snape's position is dangerous," she said finally, glancing at Severus with an uncharacteristically unreadable expression. "He could use the necklace if he needs help." Severus heard one of the twins mutter something under his breath, but ignored him; he was under no illusions about the regard the other Order members felt for his safety.

The girl also heard the mutter, and her face turned red, but whether from anger or embarrassment, Severus couldn't tell. "I mean, there's danger for everyone in the Order," she said hastily. "The pendants could be very useful, to alert one another if there's trouble."

"The risk is too great," Albus said again. The other Order members were looking uncomfortably at the table, but Severus's eyes swept back and forth between the girl and his employer. "Think, my dear, what could happen if your pendant was charmed to relay messages, and fell into the wrong hands." Dumbledore shook his head. "I admire your desire to ensure the Muggles'--and Professor Snape's--safety, but unfortunately, such things must come after the greater good."

Severus felt something spasm inside him, watching Miss Granger's face pale. She tightened her mouth and gave a quick, curt nod, before subsiding, folding her arms tightly and avoiding everyone's eyes.

Albus watched her for a moment, then nodded at Lupin. "Remus, your report?"

. . . . .

Hermione sat like a statue throughout the rest of the meeting. She and her parents had watched news footage of the attacks, horrified, as church after church throughout Britain burned. Many of the people trapped inside died of smoke inhalation before they could be rescued; the few who had managed to escape the buildings didn't get far, every one of them found unmarked and seemingly uninjured, but most definitely dead. That in itself had set of alarm bells in her head; she could think of nothing except Avada Kedavra that killed without leaving a trace.

The Muggle authorities attributed the attacks to an as-yet-unidentified terrorist group. Which was, she supposed, the basic truth of it.

The meeting had adjourned minutes before, and most of the members were either tucking into second portions of stew, or talking together in small groups. Remus Lupin tried to catch her eye several times, but she was too overcome with embarrassment and fury to make small talk with anyone.

How dare Dumbledore dismiss the safety of people like her parents, dozens, perhaps hundreds of people, when there was at least a potential solution a charm away? And why, _why_ hadn't anyone else agreed with her? Something had gone very cold inside her when Dumbledore spoke of the "greater good" over Muggle lives. _Wasn't_ that the greater good--wasn't that part of what they were fighting for?

The only other person not socializing was Snape, and Hermione darted several furtive glances at him where he sat across the table from her, drumming his long fingers on the tabletop and scowling to himself. He looked even worse than usual, tired and angry, his hair and skin shining with oil in the lamplight as if he hadn't bathed in days. She wondered why he was still there, and felt another surge of furious indignation on his behalf. She'd seen the way Moody kept his magical eye on Snape throughout the entire meeting, and the way most of the other members had listened to his report with expressions of horrified revulsion that she suspected were for the man himself as much as for his story. And Dumbledore disregarded her concern for his safety just as he had her fear for Voldemort's potential Muggle victims.

As if he sensed her scrutiny, Snape's head snapped up, his eyes holding hers captive for a long moment. Hermione could feel that her own face was still knotted with emotion, a weakness he would normally have sneered at. He seemed on the verge of speaking when the sound of her own name diverted her attention.

"Miss Granger!" Professor McGonagall appeared by her elbow. "Are you ready to go? I've some things I must take care of before the other students return tomorrow."

Involuntarily, Hermione glanced at Snape, but he was no longer looking in her direction.

"Yes, of course," she said belatedly, and stood, her chair scraping back from the table.

After enduring some fussing from Mrs. Weasley and fetching her things, Hermione stood beside the massive fireplace.

"The Headmaster has opened the network to his office," McGonagall said, then pinched some Floo powder, disappearing in an impressive show of green flames.

Hermione waited several seconds, then went through herself, Vanishing the resulting mess as soon as she found herself in Dumbledore's office--the Wizarding equivalent of wiping one's shoes before entering a house, she supposed.

McGonagall's expression of alarm was Hermione's only warning before the fireplace flared green again and Snape stepped out, nearly knocking her over.

"You might have mentioned you were coming back, Severus!" McGonagall tutted.

Snape Vanished his own mess, giving them both an irritated look.

"And you might have assumed I'd have little desire to sit about listening to inane conversations," he snarled. McGonagall made an exasperated noise, and Snape turned abruptly on Hermione.

"Now might be an opportune time to conduct a lesson," he said.

Hermione stared at him in disbelief; rarely had she seen him look more in need of a bath and some sleep. McGonagall made another noise.

"Severus, Miss Granger has had a difficult evening, even prior to her altercation with Albus," she said reprovingly. "Surely--"

"And I have had rather a trying week, but I still feel capable of carrying on with my duties!" he retorted, but the questioning look he shot Hermione rather negated the heat of his words.

"Severus--"

"It's okay, Professor McGonagall," Hermione interrupted. "I'm too wound up to sit around the Tower on my own right now, anyway."

"Mmmph." McGonagall shook her head. "I'll be on my way, then. The house elves will bring your things to your room. . . Do see that she gets back to her dormitory at a reasonable hour, Severus."

After the door closed behind her, Snape and Hermione stood rather awkwardly for a moment before he finally let out an irritated breath. "Let's get on with this," he muttered, not looking at her. He threw open the door, but rather than step through, he held it open for her. The look on his face convinced Hermione that he was as surprised by his own politeness as she was.

. . . . .

They made their way to the Defense classroom in uncomfortable silence. Severus unwarded the door without speaking, purposely striding through it before Miss Granger, then closed and re-warded it behind her just as wordlessly. Then he paced to the window and leaned over the sill, gazing over the darkened grounds.

Behind him, Severus could feel Miss Granger's eyes on his back. It was true, so far as it went, that tonight was as good an opportunity as any for a lesson, but now they were in his classroom, he realized how very much he did not feel like having his mind explored. He ached all over, from several days spent controlling his every facial expression and gesture, from laughing when he felt no mirth and keeping his thoughts carefully hidden.

Why he'd asked the girl here when a lesson was the last thing he wanted to do was beyond him at the moment. She'd looked distraught at the meeting, off-balance and unsure of herself before taking her seat, and livid by the end; suggesting a lesson had been a mad impulse, born of some sort of misguided empathy as the girl discovered, for the first time, the depths of her own powerlessness.

And then there was her unexpected inclusion of _his_ safety in her argument about charming the Order members' pendants. He bit back a growl, and the urge to drive her from the room, raking a hand through his hair. He was under no illusions about his own loneliness, but the desperation evidenced by asking a student to allow him to hold a lesson in the last days of a holiday was. . . pathetic. Bloody pathetic, that's what he was.

Behind him, the girl said, "Sir?" in a small voice. "I hope—I hope you weren't offended by my—by what I said in the meeting."

Severus turned to face her slowly. In the shadowy room, he couldn't see her features clearly; when he spoke, he kept his own voice expressionless. "Why should I have been offended?"

There was a brief silence while she considered his question. "I didn't ask how you felt about my idea ahead of time," she said, after a beat.

Severus was quiet for a long moment. "I would be foolish to take offense when you were the only person in the room who had any regard for my well-being," he said finally.

Apparently having no response to that, she said instead, "The meeting wasn't what I expected."

"That was patently obvious," he said dryly.

"Right. I thought. . ." He heard the click of her teeth as she tightened her jaw; her last words sounded choked, as though she were—_Damn_—on the verge of crying.

When she didn't continue, Severus said sharply, "You thought what, Miss Granger?"

She turned her face away. "I thought—I just never thought that none of those people would agree with me about—I mean—" She let out a shuddery breath. "I know Harry's supposed to kill You-Know-Who, but I just never imagined Professor Dumbledore saying. . . what he said tonight." She shivered. "As far as I know, nobody's figured out how Harry's supposed to succeed yet, anyway, and in the meantime, the Death Eaters are killing people who can't do _anything_ to defend themselves." Her voice had risen as she spoke, until the last words sounded positively shrill.

Severus regarded her for a moment, unmoving, from his place in the shadows. "I understand your distress, Miss Granger," he said finally, reluctantly. "But Dumbledore has led the Order for decades. His opinion is. . . greatly valued. And while his reasons for doing things may not be obvious, we must believe that he does have them."

She shifted her weight and crossed her arms, clearly dissatisfied. Severus was almost embarrassed by his pat response to her unspoken question, but he had given up the right to question Albus's authority a long time ago. Oh, he argued with the old wizard, but Dumbledore always had the last word.

"What did Professor McGonagall mean?" he asked abruptly.

Miss Granger stared at him for a moment, trying to follow his non sequitur. "What?" she said, adding, "Sir," as a clear afterthought.

He let out a long-suffering sigh. "She said you had a 'difficult evening,' I believe. What was she referring to?"

"Oh." She swallowed; Severus was sure he saw a hint of wetness on her cheek before she swiped it away. He chose not to comment, relieved, if unsurprised, that she seemed disinclined to seek comfort from him. "I told my parents about—well, the bones of what's been going on with the war, when Professor McGonagall came to take me to the meeting. I'd kept most of it from them, at least my involvement."

"Ah." Severus cleared his throat uncomfortably. Then, feeling as if the words were being dragged from his mouth against his will: "That is. . . a great deal to spring on them all at once. I take it they were unhappy?"

She snorted damply. "That's putting it mildly." Then her shoulders slumped, and she sank into one of the student chairs, resting her elbows on the desk and her face in her hands. "They can't understand," she whispered.

He pressed his lips together, torn between his natural reticence to talk to his students for any length of time, and the uneasy knowledge that he had already strained the boundaries of his comfort by promoting Miss Granger's membership in the Order.

Not to mention spending hours at a time inside her mind, and teaching her to poke about in other people's, using his brain as her test subject.

"The necessary secrecy surrounding our society asks. . . a great deal of Muggleborns' families," he said carefully. He was tired in his very bones, and he moved closer to her, sitting at the desk beside hers, and then felt immediately idiotic for not having sat at his own desk, maintaining a proper physical and metaphorical distance. He was slipping, he was fucking slipping, now, of all times—the Dark Lord was right, he had been sheltering at Hogwarts for too long, if the past few, nightmarish days were causing so obvious a reaction from him.

She looked up, startled by his nearness, and Severus bit back a curse. After a moment, she said, "I suppose this isn't something that comes up often in Slytherin. Muggleborn family problems, I mean." She gave him a small, wry smile. This close, he could see that her eyes were red-rimmed.

"It does not," he acknowledged.

"It's just—I don't know how easy it is to imagine, if you haven't grown up around Muggles." The girl was talking mostly to herself again, a rather grating habit of hers. "They have no way of understanding my world. My dad's read some Tolkien, I think, but. . . He and my mum are dentists." She looked up, as if remembering she had an audience, and said, "A dentist is rather like a Muggle healer, who specializes in—"

"I know what a dentist is," Severus broke in irritably. He thought he saw her dart a glance at his teeth as he spoke, and he clamped his mouth shut tightly for a moment, feeling his cheeks warm. He was well aware of what he looked like.

"Oh!" She gave a true smile this time. "I'm sorry, Professor, I'm just always surprised when a Pureblood knows anything about Muggle culture." A small frown creased her forehead. "Ron never seems to retain anything I tell him about it—I think it's as unreal to him as the wizarding world is to my parents."

"Contrary to what all of Gryffindor seems to believe, not all Slytherins are Purebloods," Severus bit out, rather irked at having been compared, even favorably, to a Weasley. She looked startled. "Granted, Salazar Slytherin's prejudices ensured that few Muggleborns are sorted into his house, but a fair number of half-bloods are. And as your friend Mr. Weasley has demonstrated, Slytherin does not have a monopoly on Pureblood ignorance."

"So—you're not a Pureblood, then, sir?"

"No, Miss Granger, I am not." After a moment, during which he savored her unaccustomed silence, he added magnanimously, "My father was a Muggle."

"Really? I had no idea." She leaned forward. "I guess you do know what I'm talking about, then. Though if your mother was a witch, your father must have had some acquaintance with magic. . .?"

A quick, long-forgotten image of his mother surfaced behind Severus's eyes: her narrow form bent under the weight of a basket of wet laundry, crossing their small lot to the clothesline strung at the back. She'd spent her days keeping their house clean the Muggle way, scrubbing the floors on her hands and knees, laundering his father's stinking clothing by hand once a week. Not a beautiful woman even in her youth, by the time Severus was old enough to notice such things, Eileen Snape was as worn-out as the other women living at Spinner's End, her hands dry and cracked, her tall, bony body perpetually stooped. But there was something more wretched about her than about the wives of the other factory workers. He sometimes heard them singing as they went about their work, and their voices were strong and cheerful when they called their children in for dinner. His mother was quiet, always. Poverty had the power to make people miserable, but what really exhausted his mother, Severus thought, was keeping her magic always in check. She was a powerful witch, and for most of her adult life, she had abrogated her own magic, something that was not only mentally, but physically a part of her.

"No," he said shortly.

"I don't understand, sir. Do you mean your father didn't know your mother was—"

"He knew, Miss Granger," Severus said. He intended to stop there, but found himself elaborating, against his better judgment. "Not when they met, or even when they were first married, but he found out." His mother had been using magic covertly until that day; after Tobias discovered what she was, she stopped altogether.

Feeling grim, he looked the girl in the face, to find her watching him with a serious expression. "He was frightened, Miss Granger, by a wife who had powers he couldn't begin to understand. And by a son who could send things flying, or make them explode, when he was still in nappies." She blinked, appearing startled by the reference to her professor's babyhood.

"My parents are frightened, too," she said quietly. The words appeared to cause her pain, because she averted her gaze, blinking rapidly. "They've always treated me the same—I think it was a relief, actually, in some ways, when Professor McGonagall brought my Hogwarts letter. Looking back, they must have worried that there was something truly wrong with me. . . But when I described my classes, I could tell they didn't really understand what I meant by charms and jinxes and even Arithmancy. I was so happy when I got my prefect badge, it was something I could tell them that—_translated_, you know? And of course, I couldn't demonstrate any magic for them until now, this holiday was the first time they saw me really use my wand, because I wasn't of age before." She grimaced. "I think it made them uncomfortable, though they were too polite to say anything."

"I expect they will come around, with more exposure," Severus said. The words tasted strange; he was unused to attempting reassurance. "Just as I expect they will accept your full participation in this world, and all that entails, once they have had time to adjust to the things you have kept from them, and to your—"

_Adulthood_, he had been about to say, but choked on the word. She was a student, which put her comfortably in the category of "child" in his head, despite the fact that she was, legally, an adult. But that was before he'd been inside her mind, and allowed her, however reluctantly, into his, and known the depths of her feelings, the intricate workings of her brain, the bright, blistering force of her self.

"To the fact that you are aging," he said finally.

Thankfully, she chose not to comment on his awkward choice of words, and he decided to forestall any more conversation by standing and saying, "If you are through asking invasive questions, perhaps we can begin our lesson." He was striving for coldness, and based on what he could see of the girl's expression, he had achieved it. "I should like to get this over with."

Her jaw clenched, but she nodded and stepped forward to face him. Severus noted the glint of determination in her eyes with no small amount of apprehension. Then she muttered, "_Legilimens,_" and he felt her inside of him.

. . . . .

Hermione had spent most of the holiday thinking about why she was unable to successfully perform Legilimecy. She had considered and discarded his suggestion, that her character was fundamentally wrong for the discipline; the thought was intolerable, and besides, she had _been_ in his mind, and she relished the memory of the strange, shivery feeling of totally knowing and understanding another person's thoughts. It was the sort of knowledge she could never hope to acquire from books, and she craved more of it.

She still thought that she was right, in that Snape's instructions had been all wrong for their purposes. He was not her opponent; he was her teacher, her ally. Now that she had been inside his mind, however briefly, she understood for the first time since he had first entered hers just how much he knew about her. Though he had refused to answer when she asked him what he had discerned of her character, she knew, from what she had learned of his even before he showed her any memories, that he must have learned a great deal. It was an overwhelming thought, both scary and intellectually thrilling, to realize that he probably knew her better, in some ways, than Harry and Ron, or even her mum and dad.

Snape's exploitation of her inquisitive nature during their last lesson had provided the spark for an idea. Months, or maybe only weeks before, she would have thought of the man's arrogance or anger, or perhaps his intelligence, if she had to choose one trait that most defined him. Now, she thought of his wariness and tension, but more than that, she remembered her impression of him from Professor Slughorn's party, and then again, at the Order meeting that evening: alone and excluded.

With that in mind, Hermione sent forth her magic. Rather than battering at his shields, as she had resorted to doing before, she touched them gently; more a caress than a demand for entrance. She touched his shields once, twice, the second time leaning her magic against them in the same way that one person might place the palm of her hand over the back of another's. Snape's eyes widened, and she felt the shudder of his defenses and a surge of adrenaline as her magic pushed past his them.

And she was _in._ In his memory of that very evening, in fact. The meeting had obviously broken up, and she and Snape were the only people sitting at their end of the table. Hermione felt overwhelmed with an irritation that was not her own; the other Order members' conversations sounded louder than she remembered them being, and when several of the Weasleys, standing in a loose cluster to one side of the room, burst into raucous laughter, memory-Snape flinched subtly as though it had been directed at him, and her mind was filled with a sense of defensiveness.

Without really thinking about it, Hermione directed her magic to catch onto the feeling, and found herself looking at a much younger Snape, dressed in his student robes and sitting alone in a compartment of the Hogwarts Express. His teenaged self was watching a group of girls wearing Gryffindor uniforms who were walking past his compartment; hunched over a battered novel, he was doing a poor job of disguising the glances he kept sneaking at one girl in particular, a strikingly pretty redhead.

One of the other girls noticed him, and nudged the redhead with her elbow. "Merlin, that's creepy," she said, loud enough to carry. "Looks like _Snivellus_ is still obsessed with you, Lil."

The pretty girl cast a glance in his direction, her green eyes hard. Then she turned back to her friends, saying something too low for Hermione to hear, and they all burst out laughing.

Fury, longing, and the feeling of being utterly degraded washed over Hermione, combined with a sense that she was out of place, and ever would be. The feelings were so potent, she wasn't sure which were hers in reaction to the girls' cruelty, and which were Snape's, past or present. In front of her, adult Snape's eyes were so full of roiling emotions that Hermione felt flattened under their weight. He seemed to realize this, and within moments had controlled himself; he narrowed his eyes, and suddenly Hermione was presented with a much more recent image of her professor soaring over the Hogwarts grounds on a slim, fast broomstick.

It was evening, late enough that the sky was purple and the stars were beginning to flicker into view. Memory-Snape made a striking image, dark against the sky, robes and hair streaming out behind him, his face set with a different sort of intensity than the sort she was accustomed to seeing. As he urged his broomstick higher, clearing the foliage-thick tops of the trees, Hermione could feel in him a momentary, joyful _freedom_, and, just as strong, the longing that had no doubt tied this memory to the last one: a heavy, terrible desire to stay in the air forever, to get away.

Hermione continued to watch, fascinated, before it occurred to her that _she_ hadn't pushed forward past the memory of him on the train. A flash of irritation followed, more for herself than for Snape, for having been fooled by his deflection. Abruptly, she sent a surge of her magic after his desire to escape.

Snape's brows puckered when he realized what she was doing, and then, suddenly, she felt the sickening pulse of his panic all around her, saw his face go bleach-white and his mouth work soundlessly as her magic wound its way through his mind. He started to put up shields again, and without considering what she was doing, Hermione ran her magic along them tenderly, and they bucked and shuddered and fell before they were completely formed, and then she understood.

The memory's landscape was grey and stark, tree branches thickly coated with ice. They were on a narrow, building-lined street, and at one end was a white church that looked smartly new beside the rest of the town's older, greyish architecture. There were three masked figures standing in the shadows of the building, and Hermione watched with growing horror as several more Death Eaters popped into existence around them, their heavy robes and hoods making them all but indistinguishable from one another.

Snape seemed to have stopped breathing, his eyes, wider than she had ever seen them, boring into hers. They both watched as one of the Death Eaters raised his wand and pointed it at the church; as one, the others followed suit. Hermione felt something beating in Snape's mind, some cold fear and a sharp, hot hope, but she couldn't make sense of it, and then the Death Eaters had warded the church's door, and then the church was burning, their simultaneous _Incendios_ shattering windows and creating an immediate conflagration. Screams erupted from within the church, growing more frantic when the Muggles inside realized they were trapped, the door rattling.

The Death Eaters were watching the fire with what appeared to be detached interest, though she noticed one man moving slightly on the balls of his feet as though eager for something. Feeling utterly ill, she stared at each in turn. One of them was Snape—not the eager one, thank God, he was too stocky—but one of the others. She couldn't tell which, hooded and masked as they were, and shrouded in the pale light of an early morning in December.

The street they were on was clearly not residential, and the shops were all still closed, which explained the lack of outraged Muggles rushing to their neighbors' defense. It wasn't until the plume of smoke caused by the fire had risen, thick and dark, high above the rooftops of the surrounding buildings, that a siren's shrill wail was heard in the distance. By then, the clamor from behind the door had faded.

One by one, the Death Eaters Apparated away, and the memory dissolved. Hermione slipped out of Snape's mind and stumbled away from him, seeing nothing, hearing only the far-away cry of the siren and the horrible lack of sound from inside the burning building.

Then another noise wrenched her focus back into the present—Snape's boots pounding against the floor, the protest of hinges as he flung open the door to his office, and then the unmistakable sound of retching. She stood frozen for a moment, then followed.

Snape was on his hands and knees on the stone floor, shoulders shuddering as he emptied his stomach. His hair hung limply on either side of his face. Hermione took a step toward him, then stopped when he held up a hand, not looking around at her, and vomited once more.

After a moment, he sat back on his heels, hair still hiding his expression, and drew his wand, Vanishing the mess. Then he dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, took a shaky breath, and stood.

Hermione had her hand at her own mouth. "Professor—"

"I think you should go now, Miss Granger," he said quietly. When he finally looked at her, she could see that he was perspiring, strands of hair sticking to his forehead.

"But, sir—"

"Now, if you please."

His face was so devoid of expression that she felt suddenly chilled. "Okay," she said faintly, and then she was running, through his classroom, down the corridor, trainers pounding and lungs straining for air.

. . . . .

After Miss Granger left, Severus found himself overcome with an exhaustion so profound, he could not muster the energy to make the trek to his rooms. Instead, he sank to the floor of his office, leaned his back against the hard stone wall, and closed his eyes.

He had been undone by a seventeen year-old witch. He, the Occlumens who kept the Order's most dangerous secrets from the Dark Lord himself. He recalled the brush of her magic against his shields, remembered its gentleness, and the unfamiliar impression of solace that had bled through from her mind to his. That she had understood. . . It was humiliating. Intolerable.

He could blame himself, for allowing his mind and body to grow so tired over the course of the past few days that he was weakened. For keeping his shields so firmly in place that he felt nothing, no emotion at all, neither during the deed nor in the days that followed, on "holiday" with his fellow Death Eaters, so that once the memory was fully exposed, his reaction was dramatic. All the fear, horror, grief, and self-loathing that he'd kept at bay had flooded over him until he felt sick. It had been so long since he had participated in such things. Decades. And even then, they had brought him no pleasure, only a sort of constant nausea.

Though he still had not gone to Albus until Lily's life was threatened; the memory of Dumbledore's cold eyes, his words--"You disgust me"--still sent a shiver along his nerve endings. Because he'd cared far more for Lily's life than for James Potter's or their son's. Because as a young man, he'd been too craven to break away from the Dark Lord, even knowing the terrible mistake he'd made in joining his ranks, until that devastating prophecy made his courage, or lack thereof, beside the point.

And of course, Miss Granger had felt everything he had. The thought would have made him furious only days before; now, he felt only numbness. What little anger he could gather was directed not at her, but at Albus--for not allowing him the use of his Pensieve from the beginning; for asking him to teach a girl whose doubts, that very night, of the rightness of the Order's decisions were making his head ache.

When Miss Granger pushed open the door to his office, Severus was somehow unsurprised. He turned his head to look at her, moving as little as possible. She had changed out of her Muggle clothes and into pajamas and a dressing gown. Her hair straggled, still wet, over her shoulders, indicating that she had bathed. Severus raised an eyebrow and then, too tired to do anything else, too tired even to feel resentful of her intrusion, he leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

He heard the rustle of cloth as she moved, the shuffle of her slippers against the floor, and then she said from very near, "You didn't re-ward your door after I left."

It took a monumental effort, but Severus opened his eyes again and turned in the direction of her voice. She was sitting on the floor beside him.

"I was worried," she continued, after a moment, avoiding his eyes. "I wouldn't have just come into your office like this, but--"

"What time is it?" he interrupted, hoarsely.

"A little after midnight."

"Well past curfew, then." He braced his palms against the floor and pushed himself into a more upright position. "Did I, or did I not, warn you that I would not stand for finding you wandering about after hours again?"

She looked incredulous. "You're joking," she said. "I--when I left you'd just thrown up! I had to come back and make sure you were all right."

"Whether I am 'all right' is none of your damn business, you insolent girl!" he growled, provoked by her uncharacteristically disrespectful tone. "I am your teacher, you are my student, you have _no right_ to any other part of my life!"

She shook her head slowly. "Sir, you can't expect me to think of you the same way I used to--"

"That is _precisely_ what I expect."

She crossed her arms. "I'm sorry, Professor, but that's impossible. I _was_ worried, and with reason."

Severus stared at her for a moment, then snorted softly. "I'd have thought you would have stayed as far from me as possible, after what you witnessed. How very Gryffindor of you not to." He looked away. "Worry—ought not to have entered into it."

She gave a small laugh. "But of course it did—you were—"

"Being sick, yes, thank you," Severus snapped. He pinched his nose; the entire conversation was rather surreal.

"That's not what I was going to say. You were upset—"

"Astute as ever."

"Sir, will you _please_ stop." She sounded tired as well, and Severus remembered belatedly that she had performed Legilimency after, as Minerva had said, a _difficult evening_. She had to be drained. He glanced at her; her wet hair appeared to be unbrushed, and she was slumped against the wall, her eyes shadowed. She turned her head a fraction, meeting his gaze curiously; and then he saw it, the glint that presaged an onslaught on questions.

"Sir," she said, a trifle hesitantly, "have you often had to do. . . things like that?"

Severus closed his eyes. "In the past, yes." He cleared his throat. "Quite often. This is the first time since the Dark Lord regained a corporeal form, however, that I have. . ." He trailed off, and opened his eyes to gauge the girl's reaction.

She didn't look quite as uncomfortable as he felt, but it was a near thing—though discomfort clearly did nothing to silence her tongue. "And Professor Dumbledore lets you?"

"He does not _let _me, Miss Granger, he _expects_ it of me. It is an integral part of maintaining my place within the Dark Lord's followers. For the past year, my position at Hogwarts has ensured that I was not expected to participate in. . . certain activities. . . involving Muggles." He looked down at his hands. "But it was pointed out to the Dark Lord by another member of his Inner Circle that I ought to be available during holidays, and might enjoy a respite from the tedium of my position as a spy at the school."

He did not mention that prior to the Dark Lord's fall, almost any such activities had been undertaken simply because he wore the Mark; the girl was bright enough to realize that on her own.

Miss Granger was looking down at her own hands, picking at the ragged edges of her cuticles. "He expects a lot," she said quietly. "I didn't—I mean, I _did_ know that You-Know-Who was going after Muggles—it's even made it into the Prophet—but I didn't understand the-the _magnitude_ of it. Even when I saw those churches burning on the telly."

She'd made one of her cuticles bleed; Severus winced.

"And being worried after—you know—it's not a Gryffindor thing," she said, half-awkward, half-defiant. "If anyone else at the Order meeting tonight had been inside _your_ memory of the event, they would've been concerned too, and not. . ."

"Revolted," Severus supplied, with a lightness he did not feel.

Her face colored, but she didn't deny that he was right.

"Do not judge them," he said after a moment. "They are quite right to feel the way they do."

Her expression grew hard, and rather alarming. "Sir—I was _there_ with you. I felt. . . forgive me, but I felt your abhorrence, your—your fear. I saw you get sick!"

"As you already mentioned," Severus muttered. His cheeks warmed briefly; then he sighed. "Being ill was no doubt the result of keeping my shields in place for too long, for not allowing myself to feel the experience until your intrusion."

She looked skeptical. "I'm sure that could be part of it, but—"

He held up a hand. "No more, Miss Granger. I can't right now."

She subsided, and Severus leaned his head back against the wall. Quiet stretched out between them, until the only sounds in the chilly room were her slow, steady breaths and his harsh ones.

Finally, he turned to her, a question that had been plaguing him since one of their earliest sessions brought to the forefront of his mind by the odd conviviality of the moment.

"You hit Draco Malfoy?"

She brought her head up from her knees, a slow, wicked grin blooming across her face. Severus felt something kick, hard, against his ribs, and he sucked in a breath. _Fuck_.

"Yes," she said.

He forced himself to swallow, forced his voice to remain steady and snide. "Why, might I ask?"

"He called me a Mudblood," she said matter-of-factly. Severus scowled. "And he was just generally being a berk."

It took a moment, and a raised brow from him, but she realized what she had said, and to whom. She clapped a hand over her mouth, looking so mortified that without meaning to, Severus laughed aloud.

And then he could not stop; he felt almost hysterical, his jaw loose, his mouth pliant, his very muscles, though heavy with tiredness, twitching in the oddest way as his chest heaved, letting out great bursts of laughter. After a moment, the girl also chuckled, tentatively, giving him a shy smile.

With effort, Severus controlled himself, eyeing her narrowly. "Five points for language, Miss Granger."

"Sorry, sir." She was grinning now; he wondered if she felt as unhinged as he did. "It was more than that, of course," she said after a beat. "Malfoy's called me Mudblood more times than I can remember. Really, he was just so insensitive about Buck--er, about Hagrid's hippogriff, when the Ministry was going to have it put down."

"A hippogriff," Severus said. His lips twitched, but he suppressed the urge to laugh again.

Instead, he stood up abruptly, brushing off his robes. He needed a bath. He needed to sleep.

Miss Granger looked up at him, utterly inelegant in her tatty dressing gown, her hair beginning to dry into a slight frizz, her expression open. His lungs ached for some reason; he rubbed at his chest.

He needed to get away from the chit and regain his equilibrium.

"I will escort you back to your dormitory," he muttered, and left the office without waiting for her response.


	13. The Efflux of the Soul

Disclaimer: Not mine! Etc, etc, etc.

. . . . .

Snape was silent as he led Hermione through the castle's deserted corridors toward Gryffindor Tower, the occasional cut of his eyes toward her the only sign that he knew she was walking beside him. Hermione was just as glad, suddenly too exhausted for much conversation, the effort of not tripping over her own slippers more than enough to keep her occupied.

The Fat Lady and her friend Violet were watching with interest, holding goblets and surrounded by several half-empty bottles of wine, when she and Snape approached the entrance to the tower. Hermione realized self-consciously that they must look an odd pair, Snape haggard, his normally smooth-shaven face dusted with the beginnings of a dark, rather patchy stubble that did nothing for his appearance, she disheveled in her dressing gown, her hair not yet dry. She offered the Fat Lady a grim smile; Snape ignored them both, pointedly turning his back on the painting.

"I'll leave you here," he said, and made as if to depart.

Instinctively, Hermione reached out a hand to stop him, her fingers just brushing the edge of his sleeve before she hastily pulled them back. "Wait—sir—"

He looked tiredly at her over his shoulder. "What is it?"

"I. . ." She stopped, flushing, uncertain how to voice her thoughts. He certainly wouldn't welcome another inquiry as to how he was feeling; it was patently obvious, in any case, that he was feeling like shit. "Just—thank you," she finally said, rather lamely.

Snape stared at her for a moment, then snorted. "You're out of your mind, Miss Granger," he said, but there was no malice in his voice, only dry amusement.

She laughed, registering somewhere in her muddled brain that his voice was really rather nice when it sounded like that, tinged with laughter instead of irritation. "Maybe," she conceded. "Ron and Harry certainly think so. But seriously, thank you."

His face darkened somewhat when she spoke her friends' names, and he averted his eyes. "Whatever for?" he said. "For showing you something that will likely give you nightmares? For—" But then he stopped himself, cutting a quelling glance at the Fat Lady and her friend, who were both listening avidly, their goblets forgotten in their hands.

"No, not for that," Hermione said sharply. "Or well, actually, yes. Because that was honest, and what I meant to say was, thank you, for being honest with me."

There was a long pause, during which he returned his gaze to hers and didn't let it waver; her own eyes began to water from not blinking. "You realize I've had no choice in the matter since you accosted me at the beginning of the year, do you not?" he finally asked. It was clear what he was doing, as it would not have been only a few short months before; rather than getting offended, Hermione cocked her head to one side, smiling faintly.

"But you did, at least in some things," she said. Snape raised an eyebrow. "I mean, you didn't have to advocate for my entry into—well, you know. Or be kind to me that night by the lake. Or tonight, either; you didn't _have_ to talk to me about my parents. Or your mum."

His mouth was hanging slightly open over his crooked teeth; his brow was now furrowed. Hermione couldn't help it—her smile broadened into a grin. Never had she thought she'd see Professor Snape looking so. . . befuddled.

Something odd flashed in his eyes, then; abruptly, he snapped his mouth shut and looked away from her. Hermione blinked, confused.

"Yes, well," he muttered. "The less said about that the better, surely." And then he was gone, and _she _was left with her mouth hanging open, watching the flap of his robes and the limp flutter of his hair until he was swallowed by the darkness of the stairwell.

. . . . .

Breakfast in the Great Hall the next morning was very quiet, and Snape, to Hermione's disappointment, wasn't even there. Afterward, she bundled up and set out over the frozen grounds to wish Hagrid a belated Happy Christmas, though what she really wanted to do was find Snape and see how he was doing. It was an urge that she didn't examine too closely.

When she returned to the castle, she found Professor Dumbledore looking very grand framed by the open doors leading to the entrance hall. "Miss Granger!" he said, his mouth curling into a friendly smile. "I hope you enjoyed your visit with Professor Hagrid."

Hermione forced herself to smile, though her entire face felt stiff with cold and wariness. "Yes, sir," she said shortly, and nodded to him, hoping to escape to the Tower. "I'm just going to go back to the common—"

"Excellent," he interrupted, pulling a scroll out of one of his voluminous sleeves. The action made his sleeve slip down toward his elbow for a moment, and she caught a glimpse of his forearm, where the blackness that was twisting his hand and wrist was starting to creep in long, sinister-looking tendrils. Her eyes widened.

If he noticed her scrutiny, Dumbledore chose to ignore it. "Would you be so good as to deliver this to Harry for me, when he arrives?" he asked, holding the scroll out. She took it automatically and tucked it into the pocket of her cloak, mumbling a hasty good-bye.

Harry, Ginny, and Ron were standing outside the entrance to the tower when she arrived, arguing with the Fat Lady—who was looking rather the worse for her night of indulgence—about the password. Hermione felt gladness break across her at the sight of Harry and Ginny, who turned to face her when she called out to them, Ginny grinning and Harry shoving his glasses up his nose, glancing between her and Ron before smiling at her, too.

It was easier than she had expected to ignore Ron in favor of hugging her other friends and giving Harry Dumbledore's scroll, at least until they were in the common room and Lavender came at him like a starving woman after a bar of Honeyduke's best chocolate, her cry of "Won-Won!" shrill enough to shatter glass.

"There's a table over here," Hermione said hastily, turning her back on the sight of Ron's big hands on Lavender's hips, their mouths locked together. She tensed her jaw against the urge to scream. ++

Harry nodded, looking rather as though he didn't mind escaping either. "So how was your Christmas?" he asked as they settled themselves down. ++

Hermione closed her teeth together over stories of her mother's crying, her father's fear. Dumbledore's chilly pronouncement, Snape's hollow eyes, his shaking hand wiping at his mouth.

"Oh, fine. Nothing special," she lied instead. Guilt over her secrecy formed a sort of knot in her stomach. "How was it at Won-Won's?" ++

Harry gave her a look, and she winced; she'd meant the name to sound airy, maybe dryly funny, but it had come out bitter as lemons. "So what was this important news you wanted to tell me?" she said quickly. ++

Harry leaned forward, dropping his voice, though she doubted anyone could hear them over the din of the common room, stuffed as it was with reuniting students. "I overheard something during Slughorn's party," he said. "You know, when Snape dragged Malfoy out after he gate-crashed?"

Hermione's heart began to thump hard against her ribs as the story came out, her throat squeezing shut with fear. _Oh God, oh God, oh God._ Snape couldn't have. He _couldn't _have.

She remembered her words from the night before. _Thank you for being honest with me_. Oh Merlin, how stupid could she be? To think that someone like Snape, someone in his position would really be as open with her as she thought he had been, would think of her as. . . God, she was an idiot.

Hermione hardly slept that night, dread holding her limbs stiff and still, as though by not moving, she could prevent Harry's words from being true. She felt that she had come a long way toward truly knowing Snape (_What hubris_, his voice said, mocking her), particularly in their last meeting, when she'd been filled with his revulsion for himself and his fellow Death Eaters, and felt the sickening press of his fear against her own lungs. Somehow, knowing what she did of him made it only too easy to imagine that he'd somehow gotten into this stupid fix. This daft, ridiculous, _idiotic _fix.

_He made an Unbreakable Vow._

_Why?_ she raged silently. Why would he promise something like that to Narcissa Malfoy—the wife of a known Death Eater and the mother, if Harry was to be believed, of another. And what were the terms? Just to protect Draco? If so, that was incomprehensibly short-sighted of him, vowing something so very vague. More likely there was more to it that Harry didn't know, but what?

Did Dumbledore know? Hermione had to believe. . . she did believe. . . that Snape had made the vow for something approximating the right reasons. For whatever mad reasons seemed right at the time. She _did_. And anyway, would it matter if Dumbledore did know about the vow? His spy was expected to participate in atrocities that made him physically ill; would the headmaster really draw the line at Snape committing himself to a vow whose implications, should he not fulfill its terms. . .

Whose implications. . .

Here, her brain stuttered.

Hermione had read extensively about Unbreakable Vows, having come across the term while doing extra research for a Defense essay several years before. She knew that if Snape failed to carry out any of the vow's conditions, he would die.

Staring blankly up at her bed's canopy, she couldn't decide which frightened her more: The thought that Snape would do whatever Narcissa Malfoy had made him vow to do; or that he wouldn't.

. . . . .

Miss Granger did not look at Severus when she entered his classroom behind Potter and Weasley. From the corner of his eye, he watched as she slid into her seat, looking pensive, and stared at her desktop as though it held the answer to some troubling question. He ignored the strange lurch in his stomach at the sight of her, the way it dropped several inches when he realized that, most uncharacteristically for her even before their private lessons began, she was pretending he didn't exist.

"Open your books to page three hundred and six," he snapped. "Who can tell me what use elementary jinxes might have in a duel against a witch or wizard experienced in using Dark magic?"

The girl did not raise her hand; that, more than anything, alerted Severus that something was horribly amiss. After staring at her for a moment too long, he nodded at Dean Thomas, who stuttered an incomplete but technically accurate response that earned Gryffindor one point. For the rest of the lesson, Severus watched Miss Granger covertly, and was startled to find that she was watching him as well, a small crease between her brows, her mouth pulled into an abstracted little moue, as though he were a particularly vexing Arithmancy equation. At the end of class, as the other students formed a scrum at the door in their haste to escape, Severus beckoned to her.

"Miss Granger," he said, marking the tightness of her grip on her satchel, the way her eyes skittered away from his. "Is there a problem?"

She opened her mouth, cut her eyes sideways at him, then closed it again, shaking her head sharply. "I—no, sir."

He leaned toward her across his desktop. "Indeed? Then I must assume you neglected to do the reading I assigned over the holiday; you did not volunteer your. . . cornucopia of knowledge once during the entire class."

She colored. "I did the reading, sir."

Severus felt something tighten in his chest; he glanced at the door to make certain the other miscreants were gone, then shut it with a wave of his wand. Miss Granger startled at the sound.

"Is there anything you wish to discuss?" he asked.

She seemed to hesitate. "I. . ." Her jaw tightened. "I don't know," she said finally. "No. . . maybe. Not yet." She looked down at the floor.

Severus raised his eyebrows. "Ah. That clears everything up nicely, then." He studied her for a moment, then let out an aggravated sigh. "Go. You shall be late for your next class," he muttered.

When she reached the door, he added, "I expect to see you at the usual time tomorrow evening."

She did not turn around. "Yes," she said quickly, and was gone.

. . . . .

He was waiting in his classroom when she arrived the next evening. Watching her set her bag on the floor and take her wand out of her sleeve, all without once meeting his eyes, Severus had to fight the desire to attack her mind with all his strength, to force from it the secret of what was bothering her.

Instead, he shifted his weight minutely and said, "Miss Granger."

"Professor Snape." She looked as if she had hardly slept since he saw her last. He certainly had not, spending hours staring at nothing except his own memories—the acrid smell of flames, the contrasting cold of the air, the screams. And the girl, stripped of her student uniform, tired and shaken. There, with him, sitting on the floor, the chill of the stones likely seeping through her clothing as it already had through his. Merlin, what she knew. What she'd said.

_You can't expect me to think of you the same way I used to—_

Quite.

Her demeanor was entirely changed now, of course. Astounding, really, what a few days could do for one's perspective. Severus could only conclude that she was regretting her actions in returning to his office after he made such a spectacle of himself—regretting her own, brief sympathy for him, knowing what he had done to those Muggles. By all the bloody gods, he was inot/i going to mind. She was one more student who mistrusted him. That was all.

The more fool he, to have expected anything else.

"Well, get on with it," he said irritably. "Don't tell me what you're looking for; let's see how long it takes you to find it."

Something appeared in her expression, something sharp and brilliant and altogether terrifying. The next moment, it was gone, and then she was in his mind, her face troubled but no longer hard, the brush of her magic making him shiver. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fingers into fists at his sides, holding on as she pressed and pressed; she seemed to be going after the most trivial events, and he was cautiously relieved that she was not, as he had at first feared, determined to find something he couldn't allow her to know. Severus threw up deflective memories easily, watching her eyes for any hint of what she was thinking.

Her Legilimency grew more and more insistent, and he threw up more and more memories, laying bare his life for her in a way that he never had for Albus. Each memory he displayed was carefully chosen, designed to make her think well of him again, but as the pressure of her presence grew more insistent, Severus felt increasingly uncomfortable. It reminded him, he realized with a rush of mortification, of the way a building, solitary climax felt, the desire just to get to the sodding release—he had the bizarre, uncharacteristic urge to open his mind to her, to let her in completely and utterly, seeing everything, every little thing that had made up his life.

He wrenched his eyes away, face prickling and hot, and whirled about, leaning heavily against his desk with both palms.

Miss Granger made an indignant noise. "What was that for?" she asked, her tone just shy of accusatory.

Severus hung his head , hair swinging heavily on either side of his face. "You were taking too long," he said, his tone clipped. "I haven't got all night."

She didn't respond, and after a moment, when he felt he had his expression back under control, Severus faced her. She was watching him, much as she had in class the day before, her expression grave, brown eyes tracing patterns across his face.

The room felt suddenly very cold. "What _is _it, girl?" Severus's voice was low, deadly. "There's clearly something amiss—"

Miss Granger shook her head. "I. . ." She looked away, then glanced back at him, a look of such blame that he felt compressed by it, by the certainty that his assumptions about her odd behavior were correct.

"Very well," he said quietly, then, and turned away, hurrying toward his office.

The girl, he saw from the corner of his eye, stepped forward as if to speak, but then his office door had slammed shut behind him. He stepped up to it, and for a shameful instant nearly pressed his ear to the wood, then took a hasty step back, pulled a random book off his shelf, and scrunched himself down into his desk chair with it, eyes scanning entire paragraphs without seeing them.

Eventually, he realized he didn't need to put his ear to the door, or use any sound-enhancing charms; her heavy Muggle shoes were loud on the stone floor when she finally walked away.

. . . . .

Two nights later, Severus was on his way to his classroom for another Legilimency session. He moved stiffly, ignoring the students standing in noisy clusters as he left the Great Hall after dinner; they tended to scurry out of his way in any case, the thundercloud of his expression enough to make them afraid.

"Professor Snape."

Albus stood in the entrance hall; Severus had marked the older wizard's presence, but had hoped to pass him unnoticed.

"Headmaster," he said, eyeing Dumbledore warily; the man's spangled robes were partially concealed by a voluminous traveling cloak.

"It's such a clear evening, I thought perhaps you would like to join me in a turn about the grounds." Dumbledore's tone was mild, but there was no doubt that his request was really a demand.

"Very well," Severus said, hooding his eyes. He would need to inform Miss Granger that their lesson that evening was canceled. "I must—"

Dumbledore did not raise his wand, did not so much as twitch, but moments later Severus' cloak came whipping along the far corridor. It sailed over the heads of the students still leaving the Great Hall, and settled around his shoulders.

Severus reached up to fasten the clasp under his throat. "Thank you," he said dryly.

Albus smiled. "You're quite welcome, my boy," he said; and then his expression hardened somewhat before settling back into its usual genial lines.

"Miss Granger?" he said, and Severus glanced over his shoulder to see the girl standing behind him, her ubiquitous, bulging knapsack clutched to her chest, a look of uncertainty on her face.

Severus felt his lips thin.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, Professors," she said. Her gaze lingered on Severus for a moment; he narrowed his eyes in response. She shifted her gaze to Dumbledore, marking the way his good hand massaged the upper part of his withering forearm and the spasmodic clenching of the blackened tips of his cursed fingers. Albus noticed her appraisal at the same time Severus did; he stopped the movement instantly, folding his hands in front of his middle. Miss Granger blinked and looked away.

"I—um. I was on my way to your classroom for our—lesson, Professor Snape," she said, glancing at him for the shortest of instants. "But I saw you and Professor Dumbledore here, and. . ." She trailed off, mapping the traveling cloaks both men wore. "I just wanted to make sure I should still go there."

Severus hesitated, cutting his eyes in Albus's direction. The older man had been watching the girl shrewdly; now he glanced at Severus, then said, "By all means, Miss Granger. I won't be keeping Professor Snape outside long. I'm sure you have plenty of homework to keep you busy in the interim."

She nodded slowly. "All right. Thank you, sir." She did look at Severus then, a frankly curious glance. He nodded at her, holding her eyes for a long moment, and watched as she bit her lip, hefted her knapsack onto one shoulder, and headed down the corridor.

Albus turned to face the great double doors. Though he touched neither them nor his wand, they swung open, and the two men made their way onto the castle grounds.

They walked in silence for several minutes, Severus tempering his usual briskness in deference to Albus's slower gait. The air was cold, the grounds shrouded in the greyness of twilight. He could see Albus's breath, coming faster than it ought given their ambling pace. He looked away, toward the line of trees marking the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

"When can Miss Granger begin Harry's lessons?" Dumbledore asked finally. His voice was low, and when Severus glanced at him, his face was frozen in a sort of weary contemplation.

"Very soon, I expect." Severus pulled his cloak more tightly around his body, ignoring the contrasting relief and despondence the headmaster's question elicited. "She has grown. . . nearly competent."

Albus smiled. "High praise, from you."

Severus shifted uncomfortably, but did not deny it.

"Why have they not begun, then?"

"I. . ." Severus paused. Though they had not held many Legilimency sessions, it was clear that she was at least skilled enough in the discipline to teach an untrained Occlumens like Potter. That was, after all, the purpose of their lessons; there was no need to train the girl to mastery.

"I don't know," he admitted. Albus looked at him sharply.

"Harry mentioned during our recent lesson that he had not yet attempted Occlumency," he said. "I hoped you would have a good reason." When Severus did not respond, the air around the old wizard crackled dangerously. "Severus," he said, "answer me."

Severus stopped walking. "I will inform Miss Granger that she must begin teaching Potter immediately."

Dumbledore stopped as well. "I am glad to hear it, but that still does not answer my question." Severus stared straight ahead of him, and finally Albus sighed. "Severus—you know how long I have left. _Harry must be taught._ If this is an attempt to keep our plans from unfolding as we both know they must—"

A peculiar mix of anger and relief coursed through Severus; better, he thought, that Dumbledore think him childishly trying to avoid his duty than to suspect his spy's reluctance stemmed from a pathetic desire not to lose the girl's company, even stilted and strange as it had been of late.

"I had thought to ensure that Miss Granger's success with Legilimency was absolute. I have said that I will tell her to start Potter's lessons." He began walking again, feeling the need for movement, though he went slowly enough that Albus could easily follow.

"What are you doing with Potter, all these evenings you are closeted together?" he asked after a moment.

"Why?" Dumbledore said tiredly. "You aren't trying to give him _more detentions_, Severus? The boy will soon have spent more time in detention than out." ++

Severus' jaw tightened in irritation. Albus knew full well that his reasons for wanting to know about Potter's lessons had nothing to do with punishing the boy. And yet, there was no escaping his dislike of Potter, a visceral, green-tinged thing that even he knew was only distantly rooted in logic.

Yet Severus could not prevent himself from muttering, "He is his father over again—" ++

Dumbledore cut him off with a reproving glance. "In looks, perhaps, but his deepest nature is much more like his mother's." Severus bit back a snort with difficulty. "I spend time with Harry because I have things to discuss with him, information I must give him before it is too late." ++

"Information." Severus turned the word over in his mind. In all likelihood, Miss Granger knew more about Potter's lessons than he did. And when Dumbledore was gone, he thought, were these the only people who would be able to carry on his machinations? A damaged, hot-headed boy, his thick-headed, Quidditch-mad friend, and one brilliant but inexperienced witch? ++

"You trust him," he said flatly. "You do not trust me." ++

"It is not a question of trust. I have, as we both know, limited time. It is essential that I give the boy enough information to do what he needs to do." ++

"And why may I not have the same information?" Severus demanded fiercely. ++

Albus stopped walking again, giving Severus a hard look over the tops of his spectacles. "I prefer not to put all my secrets in one basket, particularly not a basket that spends so much time dangling on the arm of Lord Voldemort." ++

Severus felt his words like a physical blow. "Which I do on your orders!" he hissed. ++

"And you do it extremely well." Albus put a hand, the whole one, on the younger man's shoulder; of course he knew how his words had hurt. He knew everything, it often seemed. Severus held himself perfectly still, unwilling to accept the old man's attempt at reassurance, and after a moment, Dumbledore removed his hand, looking regretful. ++

"Do not think that I underestimate the constant danger in which you place yourself, Severus," he said. "To give Voldemort what appears to be valuable information while withholding essentials is a job I would entrust to nobody but you." ++

iIndeed./i "Yet you confide much more in a boy who is incapable of Occlumency, whose magic is mediocre, and who has a direct connection to the Dark Lord's mind!" ++

Albus frowned at him. "I sincerely hope your lack of faith in Harry's abilities in mere pique, my boy, or you have wasted a great deal of time teaching his friend."

Severus scowled. Dumbledore watched him for a moment, then sighed. "As for the rest," he said, "Voldemort fears that connection. Not so long ago he had one small taste of what truly sharing Harry's mind means to him. It was pain such as he has never experienced. He will not try to possess Harry again, I am sure of it. Not in that way." ++

His last four words made Severus uneasy. "I don't understand." ++

When Dumbledore answered, his voice had taken on a dreamy, storytelling quality that made Severus sick to his stomach. "Lord Voldemort's soul, maimed as it is, cannot bear close contact with a soul like Harry's. Like a tongue on frozen steel, like flesh in flame—" ++

Impatient, Severus cut him off before he ran them entire off track with similes. "Souls?" he demanded. "We were talking of minds!" ++

"In the case of Harry and Lord Voldemort, to speak of one is to speak of the other," Albus said, as though such a thing should be obvious. He was giving Severus a piercing, intense look, and though he was not performing Legilimency, Severus felt that the older wizard was willing him to understand something without his having to state it explicitly. It was clear that he was missing something vital, a state of affairs that did nothing for his temper. He held his peace with difficulty, watching Dumbledore work through some internal struggle. ++

Finally, glancing around as though someone else might be barmy enough to be hanging about the Forbidden Forest on a rapidly darkening winter evening, Albus said quietly, "After you have killed me, Severus—" ++

"You refuse to tell me everything, yet you expect that small service of me!" Severus snarled, his anger getting the better of him. His heart thudded wildly, painfully, against his ribs. It had to be now. _Now_. For months, the words had skittered through his mind. _I will not do it. I cannot. Can_not. But somehow, in the last weeks, the thoughts had reached a pitch and intensity that he could no longer ignore. ++

"You take a great deal for granted, Dumbledore," he said finally, the words coming out as a whisper, a pitiful, desperate plea disguised as a show of bravado he did not feel. "Perhaps I have changed my mind." ++

"You gave me your word, Severus," Albus said calmly. He fixed Severus with his signature unsettling, penetrating gaze. ++

Severus shuddered and forced himself not to back up or look away when Dumbledore took a step toward him.

"What has happened between you and Hermione Granger, Severus?"

Everything seemed to stop—Severus's heart, his breath, his nerves' ability to feel. When he answered, his voice was toneless. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Albus."

"I am referring to your change in demeanor." Dumbledore was rubbing his injured arm again; Severus watched the jerky movement, unable to look away. "You are different, my friend, these last weeks, in a way that would please me enormously were it not for the role you must play. I couldn't put my finger on it until just now, watching you and Miss Granger interact in the entrance hall."

Severus swallowed. "Indeed?"

Albus began walking again, slowly. "Yes. You were. . . cordial with one another."

How odd that Albus should mark such a thing now, when the girl seemed to have stopped treating him with the open friendliness and obvious concern that she had before. Severus nearly laughed aloud.

"I would have thought you'd rejoice to see me on 'cordial' terms with a Gryffindor," he said instead. "Nonetheless, I must say I haven't the faintest notion what you are referring to."

Dumbledore cut him a sharp glance. "You smiled at her, Severus."

He most certainly had not. "I don't smile."

A dry, wheezy chuckle. "You do, my boy, and you _did_." Seeing that Severus was about to protest, he held up a hand. "Not a smile by most standards—indeed, I wonder if Miss Granger herself recognized it as such—but it was there, in your eyes." He fixed Severus with his own bright eyes. "You were reassuring her, weren't you, my boy? I have not seen your face soften like that since Lily."

Severus could not help it—he let out a gasp of air that turned bright white upon encountering the cold all around them. He was struck by a sudden, piercing fear, that an unguarded moment on his part might have exposed her to more danger. Another person tainted by association with him.

He only faced Dumbledore again when he was certain he had himself under control. "I assure you, Albus, there is nothing between the girl and me."

"They are very alike, Severus."

Severus raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"The human mind is a mysterious thing." Dumbledore offered Severus a faint smile. "Yes, even to a Legilimens. I am speaking, of course, of Lily Potter and Hermione Granger. Both bright, both Gryffindor, both Muggle-born. . ."

Severus stared at him. So this was Albus's opinion of him. He'd wasted his youth yearning for a girl who did not want him, and now—exponentially worse—the old man believed he sought to replace her with a girl who was not only half his age, but his bloody student.

"It is unsurprising that you would be drawn to Miss Granger, considering her similarities to Lily," Dumbledore continued, "but I must say that I am relieved to know that your lessons with her are no longer necessary. Such intimacy is inappropriate, given your respective circumstances and the tasks you have before you—"

"Quite." Severus bit the word off, feeling heat gathering in his cheeks despite the cold evening. So, Dumbledore did not think he wished to replace Lily with Miss Granger—he thought Severus's mind was. . . What? Damaged enough, sick enough that, because both witches were Sorted into the same house and both possessed a modicum of intelligence, they were twining together in his thoughts, that he could no longer tell them apart? His hands were shaking, he realized, with rage and humiliation.

Albus subsided, watching him for a moment, then said lightly, "And while we are talking of services you owe me, I thought you agreed to keep a close eye on our young Slytherin friend?" ++

_Services you owe me_. Always, it came back to debts with the two of them, even after all this time. Severus pressed his mouth into a thin, angry line and looked away.

And yet, he thought then, the fight going out of him as suddenly as it had come, why should it not come back to this? And why shouldn't Albus think him twisted enough to confuse a current student with a woman nearly twenty years dead? The man had spent enough time inside his head, after all; perhaps he was right. He thought of his impulse only days before, to have someone. . . to have Miss Granger, simply because she had been—he closed his eyes, his mouth drawing up in a reflexive sneer—kind to him, understand his life as he did. His shoulders slumped, and he passed one hand over his eyes.

As though sensing the tenor of his Defense professor's thoughts, Dumbledore sighed. "I've an administrative meeting with Minerva in a few minutes," he said quietly. "But come to my office tonight, Severus, at eleven, and you shall not complain that I have no confidence in you." ++

He reached out as thought to touch Severus again, but allowed his hand to drop before his fingers had so much as grazed the heavy wool of the younger man's cloak. Then he turned and began making his slow way back toward the castle.

Severus remained still, watching him, for several moments. Perversely, he suddenly did not want to know whatever it was that Albus was going to tell him.

. . . . .

Hermione settled herself on the floor outside Snape's classroom after casting a cushioning charm on the unforgiving stone. Rather than dig into her studying, as she would normally have done, she shut her eyes tightly, leaning her head back until it rested against the hard, chilly wall behind her. It wasn't a particularly comfortable way to sit, and it made her think of Snape sitting on the floor of his office with his head tipped back and his eyes closed and his face gaunt and pale and old-man-tired.

She opened her eyes. Everything reminded her of Snape, it seemed, Harry's story shaping all her thoughts about and interactions with the man. She'd been watching him at meals, in the halls between classes, during Defense, trying not to let on that anything was wrong, for how could she talk to him when she was so breathlessly, chokingly angry? And more than a little bit hurt, as well. And frightened. But mostly _furious_.

Hermione had never been good at controlling her temper. As a child, the bursts of magic that resulted when she got upset were scary enough to keep her from throwing real tantrums. But ever since she'd gotten that under control. . .

Snape wouldn't take well to being sworn at indignantly, or pelted with birds. And this. . . this situation was so much more serious than. . . Well. As much as it still made Hermione ache to look at Ron with Lavender, she'd never felt anything like the twisting, gnawing fear that thinking of the position Snape was in gave her. Not during any of her and the boys' escapades over the years; not even in the Department of Mysteries. All of that had involved in-the-moment decisions, where only short stabs of panic were feasible if she didn't want to get herself killed. Now, she didn't even know how to talk to him about it, or whether she should, for it was clearly something she wasn't meant to know.

And in any case, how could she explain how she found out? Snape hated Harry as much as Harry loathed him.

In their lesson two nights before, she'd come so, so close to trying to chase down the answers she wanted when she entered his mind. That was the trouble with Legilimency, she was realizing; it was hard not to see it as an easy way to find out whatever she wanted to know. Which was, of course, exactly why Snape hadn't wanted to teach her in the first place.

Instead, she'd decided at the last moment to learn what the house-elves had served for Christmas dinner, but her professor had barred her continually. But his method made no sense, from an Occlumentic standpoint; the memories he chose had no relationship that she could decipher to what she was seeking, or even, for that matter, to each other. She'd watched him brewing Wolfsbane for Lupin, muttering imprecations under his breath the entire time; saw him playing Chaser as a student during a match against Hufflepuff; as a young boy, shyly presenting a familiar, pretty redhead with a cracked, blue glass perfume he'd found in the woods; watched as, roused from his bed by a charmed alarm, he pulled a worn dressing gown over (_Goodness_!) his greying nightshirt and made his way to the Slytherins' dormitories, where he broke apart a two-on-one fight and took the one, a small, defiant-looking second-year sporting a bloody nose and fish-scales hexed onto his skin, by the hand, leading him gently toward the hospital wing. Snape seemed to be showing her the best of himself, and Hermione had met his dark, emotionless gaze without knowing how to respond.

Now, she squeezed her eyes shut and thought of Snape's dark glance in the entrance hall; he'd been in her mind for only a fraction of a second, but his presence had been strangely comforting, as though he sensed her unease and sought to calm her.

Then he was out, and Hermione had been left with a muddle of confusion and fear and, underneath it all, the yearning to just ask him to help her understand what was happening.

With a sigh, she finally opened her eyes and took _Gibbleton's Encyclopaedia of Magick_ out of her bag. Because, added to everything else, Harry had been charged by Dumbledore with getting that memory from Professor Slughorn, and he seemed far more concerned with tracking Malfoy on the Marauder's Map. But those things he'd mentioned from the tampered-with memory—Horcruxes—it irked her to no end that she could find no mention of them anywhere in the library. Madam Pince had finally thrown her out just before curfew the night before, and Hermione had, out of desperation, checked out the last book in her stack—_Gibbleton's_—out of the idea that perhaps it would prove helpful where advanced texts had not.

Snape didn't come until Hermione had not only determined that, unsurprisingly, Horcuxes were not defined where they ought to have been, after "Homenum Revelio" and before "Horton-Keitch Braking Charm," but long after she had begun scouring the rest of the book for any mention of them among the other entries. The sharpness of his footsteps alerted her to his presence before he arrived at her side; she scrambled upright just before he reached her. He looked tired, and even more out of humor than usual.

Snape gazed at her for a moment, then unwarded the door. "Get inside," he snapped, and Hermione hefted her bag and followed him.

Once the door was closed behind them and the ward reset, Snape took a seat behind his desk and steepled his fingers, not looking at her. Hermione stood awkwardly, as she had so many times before, watching the interplay of shadows and light across his face, waiting for him to speak.

When he did, the words were not what she had expected. "It is time for you to begin teaching Potter," he said. Very slowly, he raised his eyes to hers and stood up. "Our lessons are at an end."

Hermione gaped at him. "Oh," she managed finally.

Snape snorted. "Indeed." He sat back down and pulled a stack of parchments toward him to start marking, but when Hermione simply stood there, bemused, he looked back up at her, clearly irritated. "What is it, Miss Granger?"

"That—that's it, then?" she stammered, feeling a surge of irrational disappointment. Teaching Harry to Occlude was the point, after all.

He looked at her steadily for a moment. "Yes, that's 'it,'" he said; his voice sounded strained, and he cleared his throat, glancing away from her.

"But. . ."

Snape tapped one long finger against his mouth. "I fail to understand what you want from me, Miss Granger."

Hermione swallowed, hard. What could she say? There were great, gaping holes in her knowledge, and she couldn't handle it.

"Especially," he added after a moment, "when you have made it quite clear, of late, how little you desire to be in my company."

She wrenched her eyes up to meet his, but he was again looking at the student essays in front of him. The studied nonchalance of it made something spasm inside of her, and at that moment, she knew she had to try to talk to him.

"No," she said, "That's not why. . . I mean. . ."

Snape's eyes had risen to meet hers at the sound of her voice. They were completely expressionless.

Hermione licked her dry lips. "It's not that." She closed her eyes as her heart rate sped up; the words she wanted desperately to say felt lodged in her throat, Harry's certainty of Snape's betrayal making her doubt her own intuition. When she opened her eyes, it seemed that some of what she was feeling had played itself out on her face, for Snape's expression was one of. . . resignation. He pointed his quill at the door, then dipped it in the pot of red ink by his elbow.

"You know the way out, Miss Granger," he said quietly, then seemed to hesitate. "If. . . you find yourself having difficulties teaching Potter, let me know at once. Otherwise, I shall expect to see you in class tomorrow."

Something seemed to have settled itself heavily on top of Hermione's lungs. She took a deep breath, then another. Snape had returned to his marking, looking for all the world as if he didn't know she was in the room.

She clenched her fingers into fists. She couldn't leave like this; she knew with absolutely certainty that leaving would break the fragile thread of familiarity that had only just recently appeared between them.

"Professor—I do have questions," she said haltingly. Snape's hand stilled; a drip of red fell onto the parchment he was marking, but he didn't look up. Hermione spoke to the top of his head, where his oily hair fell forward over his narrow shoulders.

It occurred to her that there was a less complicated question than the one that was burning in her throat, trying to get out. As Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, he might know what a Horcrux was. . . but she couldn't ask him that. As wary as she had become of Dumbledore, she remembered too well what had happened the last time she, Harry and Ron defied him, and he'd told Harry to reveal nothing about his lessons to anyone except her and Ron. Bitterly, Hermione thought that if she just had as much information as the headmaster did, she could make informed decisions; as it was, she felt as though she were balancing on a tightrope, one wrong move in either direction in danger of sending her and everyone she cared about plunging downward. But she didn't know which moves were right and which were wrong.

There was nothing Hermione hated more than not knowing.

She hugged her elbows. She probably shouldn't ask her other question, either. Harry was not meant to have found out about the vow; that much was obvious. But a Harry who had only fragments of important information was a reckless, dangerous entity. Swallowing hard, she said quickly, so that she couldn't take the words back, "Do you Legilimize people every day?"

Snape sucked in a breath. "I beg your pardon?" he asked, his voice low, his eyes, when he looked up, dangerous. "Do I invade the minds of innocent first-years on a regular basis, do you mean?"

"I didn't mean—no," she managed. He certainly had a talent for twisting words to wring the worst possible interpretation from them. "That came out wrong."

"How would it have sounded had it come out _right_?" Snape growled.

She gulped in a breath. "I suppose I should have asked whether you're ever tempted to Legilimize people—when you aren't being forced to teach them, I mean." She offered him a very small, nervous smile.

He raised an eyebrow. "Why on earth would I do such a thing? I've no desire to be burdened with the inanities of my students' minds."

_Ouch_. Hermione looked away.

"Out of curiosity—why did you ask?"

His face was completely expressionless. She reached up unconsciously and ran her palm over her white school blouse, feeling the shifting fabric under her hand and below that, the hard, high ridge of her scar. Snape's dark eyes flickered downward for an instant, resting a few centimeters above her fingers where she knew the tip of the scar was visible above the shirt's open collar. Hermione felt herself blushing; though she was trying to be less self-conscious about the thing ever since she bared it at Slughorn's party, the force of Snape's gaze made her feel strange, both uncomfortable and oddly expectant.

When she spoke, he snapped his eyes immediately back up to her face. "I asked because. . ." She drew in a deep, steadying breath, and met his eyes frankly. His were depthless as ever, but his eyelid twitched minutely under her appraisal. "I was—really tempted to use our lesson the other night to find out something I wanted to know. I obviously didn't," she said hastily, when Snape leaned forward and opened his mouth, "and I wouldn't have, but it was a near thing."

His expression didn't change. "And why did you come so close to invading my privacy?"

Hermione was breathing too fast now. "Because I wanted to know more about the Unbreakable Vow," she whispered.

Snape stared at her. "You know," he said flatly. It wasn't a question.

"Yes," Hermione said softly.

He stood abruptly and began to stride about the room, before finally turning on her savagely, crossing the floor until he was inches away from her. He bent until they were nearly nose-to-nose; Hermione could smell garlic from dinner on his breath, and she noted with alarm the tight grip he had on his wand. She gripped her own in response out of a vague idea that he might try to Obliviate her.

"Where?" he demanded. "Where did you hear of this?"

Hermione stood her ground. "I won't tell you that, sir," she said.

"Of course not," Snape muttered. He eyed her. "But I don't think I need you to tell me," he said, his voice taking on a taunting edge. "For when has a cock-up of this magnitude _not _involved your precious Potter and his ruddy _map _or his cursed invisibility cloak?" He turned on his heel and stalked away from her to the other end of the room.

After a moment, he said tightly, "So this is why. . ."

Hermione took an involuntary step forward. "Why what?"

He looked at her, then turned away again. "It doesn't matter," he said finally, but she took another step towards him, and he swallowed.

"I had assumed," Snape said stiffly, "that your distrustful manner meant you had come to your senses regarding the unpleasantness you witnessed after the Order meeting. Your revelation. . . is illuminating."

Something bucked in Hermione's chest; she dug her fingernails into the skin on either side of her scar. Snape had thought her disgusted by her knowledge of what he'd done for Voldemort over the holiday—despite her returning to him, despite her thanking him when he left her at the tower. And now—she stared at the rigid black lines of Snape's back and shoulders. Now, he thought she didn't trust him because of the vow.

"I don't think you understand," she said.

Snape turned slowly to face her. "Meaning what, exactly?"

Hermione took in a nervous breath. If she was wrong. . . She peeked up at Snape through her lashes. He was watching her, his face a blank; she exhaled the breath she'd been holding.

"May I be frank?" she asked.

He raised his eyebrows. "If you believe yourself to have been subtle up to this point, I quail at the prospect of hearing what you deem 'blunt.'"

She let out a startled laugh. Snape inclined his head.

"Nevertheless, continue," he said, his dark eyes never leaving hers.

"Okay, then." Hermione swallowed. "I'm over my head, sir. I don't know who I can trust, or what to believe, or what to do. I can't talk to Harry—he's so biased and. . . frightened, he can't look objectively at anything that's going on."

She glanced up at Snape, but he maintained a carefully impassive expression.

"I can't blame him," she continued quietly. "He's at the center of it all, and I think—I'm pretty sure—he doesn't know much more about what's going on than I do. Less, maybe, now I'm a member of the Order."

"Get to the point, Miss Granger."

She lowered her eyes. "Right. Okay." A deep breath, then she tossed her head, the tangled mass of her hair whipping back over her shoulders. "I know you made an Unbreakable Vow," she repeated, and this time her voice was steady. "It has something to do with protecting Draco Malfoy. I don't know the specifics, though I've been trying for days to imagine what you might have promised to do, and none of my ideas were. . . pleasant."

"Naturally," Snape said, his crooked, yellowed teeth clenched.

Goaded, Hermione retorted, "Well, what do you expect? No one tells us anything! And _you_—you wanted me to be an Order member because you thought my lack of knowledge was dangerous, and yet you kept something this big from. . ." She took a deep breath, and continued more calmly. "I'm certain I shouldn't have said anything to you right now, but—"

"But what?" he asked, with a quickness that belied his indifferent expression.

Hermione looked at him steadily. "It frightened me," she said. "And not for the reasons you seem to think. I haven't been able to think about anything else, or concentrate on classes or studying. . ."

"A sign of true turmoil," Snape murmured, seemingly in spite of himself, one corner of his mouth hitched.

Hermione tried to smile, but it felt unnaturally stiff. "I had to ask," she said instead, shrugging. "And," she reminded him, "you still haven't answered me."

Snape moved slowly until he was sitting behind his desk; with a wave of one hand, he indicated that she should sit, as well. Hermione slid into one of the student chairs, but couldn't relax, instead perching on the edge of the seat.

Her professor steepled his fingers and regarded her over them. "Technically," he said, "you have not asked me a question."

She rolled her eyes. "Okay—why did you make the vow to Mrs. Malfoy? And what were its terms?"

"I cannot tell you that."

She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. "Miss Granger, you know, as both myself and Professor McGonagall have informed you, that there are secrets even within the Order. This is mine."

Her jaw clenched, and something pricked at the corners of her eyes. Staring down at the desk in front of her, Hermione said, "Will you at least tell me whether Professor Dumbledore knows?"

Snape let out an unsteady breath. "He does."

She looked up. "So—he ordered you to do it."

Looking irritated, Snape snapped, "It's not that simple, girl. The. . . immediate circumstances that necessitated my taking such drastic measures arose over the summer holiday, while I was away from Hogwarts. However. . ." He paused, choosing his words with care. "There are other circumstances. . . That is, there are things between the headmaster and myself, which you cannot know about that also indirectly led to my making the vow. And as soon as the deed was done, I informed Dumbledore."

He compressed his lips into a thin line, his entire face looking pinched. Hermione sighed.

"All right," she said quietly. "I. . . appreciate you telling me that, at least."

Snape watched her carefully. "I've no doubt Albus will ask you to keep your own secrets, in time," he said. He cocked his head inquiringly. "Or rather, I assume you have been, already."

Hermione looked at him questioningly, and he elaborated, "Potter's lessons with the headmaster."

She nodded guiltily, and Snape stood.

"I must go; I've another meeting with Professor Dumbledore," he said. "It's after curfew; if Filch or anyone else asks why you're about, have them see me. I haven't time to escort you, I'm afraid."

Hermione picked up her satchel, and they both stood awkwardly for a moment, looking at one another. She traced the grooves of Snape's face with her eyes, unwilling to be the first to leave.

"What were your reasons?" he asked suddenly.

Her brow furrowed. "Sir?"

"For being frightened," he clarified, not looking at her. "When you learned of the vow."

Exasperated, Hermione blurted, "Because it could kill you, you great—" She closed her mouth with a snap when his astonished gaze darted to her face. "Er. . . sir," she concluded lamely. Her heart was thudding unevenly; her entire body, to the very tips of her fingers, felt hot with embarrassment. She was very aware of the cool disk of her Order necklace where it lay against her heated skin.

Snape didn't seem to know where to look. "I—" He cleared his throat. "I must go," he said again, and reached for the door that led to the corridor.

Impulsively, Hermione said, "I know our lessons are done, but—could we still meet, sometimes?"

Snape closed his eyes briefly. "You are now an accomplished Occlumens and on your way to being a fair Legilimens," he said. "What more do you want?"

She felt herself warm, this time with pleasure from his rare compliment. "I want--"

_--us to be friends._

She paused, startled by the realization. Hermione had never had an easy time making friends--the fact that her two closest friendships were the result of a lie and an enounter with a mountain troll was testament to that--and even when she had them, she knew that she wasn't good at keeping them. She was too prickly, too impatient, too stingy, so caught up in her books, at times, that she didn't pay them enough attention. And Snape, she suspected, was no better.

Besides which, the very idea was no doubt absurd, complicated by their respective statuses within the school's hierarchy.

After a moment she finally said, honestly enough, "I want to understand the whole world."

Snape raised a brow. "Really? Is that all."

She smiled. "Everything," she said. "Magical and Muggle. Do you—do you know what I mean?"

Snape was watching her with an unfathomable expression. "Yes," he said finally, his voice a low thrum. "I do." He touched the doorknob. "If you have questions or wish to—talk—you may come see me," he said, then wrenched the door open and headed down the hall in the direction of Dumbledore's office.

Hermione stood in the doorway for a moment, watching him. As usual, he somehow managed to cut both an impressive and ridiculous figure, his hair and robes flapping behind him as he walked. She hugged her bag with both arms, a fragile gladness fighting inside her with the stronger pull of worry.

She could not help but be skeptical of Snape's implication that the Unbreakable Vow was made for a good reason, and it was more apparent than ever that Dumbledore was willing to gamble his spy's safety to serve a larger purpose. Which begged the question of what—or whom—else he was gambling with.

Eyes narrowed, Hermione looked longingly down the hall that led to the library, then sighed. It was after curfew, as Snape said, but she could go back to her dorm and start a list of books to check out and things to research. Starting, she thought, reaching under her collar to touch the cool metal of her pendant with the tips of her fingers, with variations on the Protean Charm.

. . . . .

Severus rode the staircase to the Headmaster's office with a deep sense of foreboding, trying his best to shake off the effects of his conversation with Miss Granger. The door at the top swung open upon his arrival, and he stepped through, checking briefly at the doorway when he saw the slender bottle of Elf-made wine and two crystal glasses sitting on Dumbledore's broad desktop.

"Should I be concerned that this meeting requires something stronger than tea?" he asked sardonically.

Albus smiled faintly, but didn't respond, instead standing and waving a hand toward the chair in front of his desk. "Please, have a seat, Severus," he said.

Severus raised a brow, but sat, and when Dumbledore had poured himself a glass of wine and gestured toward the second glass with a questioning glance, he gave a stiff nod. The wine was chilled and faintly golden; he sipped, and his tongue tingled. He sipped again, more deeply.

Albus studied his own glass over the tops of his spectacles; Severus watched him until impatience finally won out.

"Well?" he said.

Albus sighed and set his glass down without drinking. He stood and began to pace about the office, pausing to run a finger over Fawkes' head and beak.

"What I am going to tell you," he said slowly, "is only going to add to your burden, and for that, I must ask you to forgive me."

Severus set his glass carefully on the desktop. "Oh?"

"There is something of vital importance that Harry must know. That he must do. Something that I will not be able to tell him about before I am gone."

The wine had sent prickles dancing across Severus's tongue and lips, down his throat, and through his chest. It was a pleasant sensation that was entirely at odds with the dread that was making each breath difficult.

"Harry must not know," Dumbledore continued. He still had not met Severus's eyes. "Not until the last moment, not until it is necessary, otherwise how could he have the strength to do what must be done?" ++

Severus found his voice with difficulty. "But what must he do?" ++

Dumbledore shook his head sharply. "That is between Harry and me." The younger man felt disbelieving laughter catch in his throat; he snatched at his wineglass and finished his drink in three smooth gulps. ++

Dumbledore stopped pacing and clasped his hands behind his back. He addressed the floor. "Now, listen closely, Severus. There will come a time—after my death—" ++

Severus drew breath to reiterate his earlier protestations, but Albus hurried on.

"Do not argue, do not interrupt!" he said harshly, clasping his withering hand to his chest. "There will come a time when Lord Voldemort will seem to fear for the life of his snake." ++

Nonplussed, Severus stared at him for a moment before saying, "For Nagini?" rather stupidly. ++

"Precisely." Albus resumed moving about the room. "If there comes a time when Lord Voldemort stops sending that snake forward to do his bidding, but keeps it safe beside him under magical protection, then, I think, it will be safe to tell Harry." Still, he avoided Severus's eyes, and the younger man placed his palms on the tops of the arms of his chair and curled his fingers tightly around them. It was rare, very rare, for Dumbledore to be so obviously ill at ease. ++

"Tell him what?" Severus asked carefully. His knuckles were bloodless; his wrists ached from the strength of his grip. ++

Albus turned his back on his spy entirely, facing the window, but Severus could see the older man's reflection in the darkened glass. He looked haggard, and old, so very, very old, a fragility that contrasted sharply with his usual power and made Severus's heart constrict for a moment with pity.

"Tell him," said Dumbledore heavily, "that on the night Lord Voldemort tried to kill him, when Lily cast her own life between them as a shield, the Killing Curse rebounded upon Lord Voldemort, and a fragment of Voldemort's soul was blasted apart from the whole, and latched itself onto the only living soul left in that collapsing building." He met Severus's eyes for the first time in the glass; Severus sat as if Petrified. Though he hadn't been there, he had imagined the scene often enough: Lily's terror, her beauty, her doomed leap into death. ++

"Part of Lord Voldemort lives inside Harry, and it is that which gives him the power of speech with snakes, and a connection with Lord Voldemort's mind that he has never understood," Albus continued, and his voice was small and thunderous at once; pleading and steely; remorseful and utterly unwavering. "And while that fragment of soul, unmissed by Voldemort, remains attached to and protected by Harry, Lord Voldemort cannot die." ++

_A fragment of_. . . Their conversation on the grounds came back to Severus then, the reason for Dumbledore's shifty behavior immediately, dreadfully obvious, and his breath left him. Potter was a Horcrux, a creation no less horrifying for its being, in this case, apparently inadvertent.

_It has all been for nothing._ The thought was illuminating, and sickening.

As though from very far away, Severus heard his own voice. "So the boy. . . the boy must die?" ++

"And Voldemort himself must do it, Severus," Albus said seriously. "That is essential." ++

He was descending into madness, or Dumbledore was; there was no other explanation. Potter had been kept and raised like livestock, carefully tended to ensure he was ready for his end. The idea was so antithetical to the image he'd all in his head all these long years—a pampered boy, Dumbledore's favored son—that Severus raised a hand to his face to ensure he was not dreaming, touching his own skin, feeling the rasp of several hours' growth of beard on his cheeks.

Potter—die? Lily's son—sacrifice himself, lay himself bare before the Dark Lord's wand? Bile rose into his throat and he swallowed, hard. _No. No, no, no, no,_ no, the word like a mantra; Albus's face, years before, twisted with repulsion. _You disgust me._ Because Severus had put the life of the woman he loved above the life of her child; yes, now he had to agree that the sentiment was worthy of disgust. But how different was this, this careful planning of the sacrificial suicide of a barely-grown boy? And for what? The greater good? Severus no longer knew what that meant; he had been avoiding the doubts that had plagued him since Miss Granger spoke of her distrust of Dumbledore's methods.

He spoke very slowly, unable to take in breath enough to shout or storm as he longed to do. "I thought. . . all these years. . . that we were protecting him for her. For Lily." ++

Dumbledore's eyes closed briefly, and Severus felt a surge of spiteful gladness, that his mentor was not as sanguine about the situation as his words indicated. "We have protected him because it has been essential to teach him, to raise him, to let him try his strength. Meanwhile, the connection between them grows ever stronger, a parasitic growth." Albus opened his eyes and touched Fawkes lightly on his back, as if the phoenix were a talisman. "Sometimes I have thought he suspects it himself," he said quietly. "If I know him, he will have arranged matters so that when he does set out to meet his death, it will truly mean the end of Voldemort." ++

_If I know him_. . . The older wizard certainly knew Severus, he thought bitterly; he'd had him dancing to the tune of saving Lily's child for nigh on two decades. How great a fool he'd been.

"You have kept him alive so he can die at the right moment?" Severus asked rhetorically. He needed to hear the actual words; needed to know for certain that he was not mishearing, misunderstanding, thinking the worst. ++

Albus finally turned toward him, his bright eyes serious. "Don't be shocked, Severus. How many men and women have you watched die?" ++

Severus looked away. _Too many. _Muggles and Squibs and wizards and witches; they all looked the same, in death. "Lately, only those whom I could not save," he muttered. He'd pledged himself to Albus and this cause long ago, and now he had to see it through. At the time, it had seemed like his only choice; now, he was almost proud of the work he had done; as much as it often sickened him, he did what no one else would. But this. He staggered to his feet, feeling a dizziness that had nothing to do with the wine he had drunk. ++

"You have used me," he said quietly. ++

Dumbledore pursed his lips. "Meaning?" ++

Severus had the sudden urge to draw his wand and curse the man, to see him fly into a million pieces, to stop his intrigues once and for all. The impulse sickened him, as did the thought, when he looked at Albus's blackened hand, that he would have the chance to indulge it soon enough. Fighting nausea, he gasped out, "I have spied for you and lied for you, put myself in mortal danger for you. Everything was supposed to keep Lily Potter's son safe. Now you tell me you have been raising him like a pig for slaughter—" ++

iLily Evans, he thought then, anguished. _Evans_. The slip brought him up short, and he stood, breathing heavily, bewildered and devastated, in the brightness of Albus's torch-lit office. _Merlin, I've failed her_, he thought. _I've failed her in every possible way_. It hardly mattered that she would doubtless have preferred that he think of her by her proper name; in that one moment, Severus felt that he had forsaken her.

She would hate him, for being unable to save her son. The disappointment he'd seen in her eyes on the horrible day when he called her that unforgiveable word would be nothing, _nothing _in the face of the hatred she would feel when he failed to keep Potter safe. How Albus expected him to make Potter listen to him, let alone believe him, especially without the older man's softening influence, was beyond Severus at the moment. But the cruelty of it—that hit him in the chest like a knife-blade. So many years, nearly half his life, he'd spent trying desperately to atone. And now—it had been for naught.

But perhaps it was fitting after all, he thought then. Dumbledore had been watching him silently for several moments; now Severus looked at him through the limp strands of his hair, his head slightly bowed. After all, he hadn't cared what happened to the brat all those years ago, when Lily's life was all he could think about. Now that it mattered—gods, it mattered—was there not some twisted symmetry to the idea of tasking him with sending Potter to his death?

Then, her image more tangible even than Lily's, he remembered Hermione Granger demanding lessons so that she could teach Potter to Occlude, keep the Dark Lord out of his head. It didn't matter that Severus was certain her motives were nearly as selfish as they were altruistic, her active mind rebelling at the thought that Potter, and not she, was allowed to learn so advanced a discipline. She had been genuinely afraid for her friend; now it seemed that her efforts on the boy's behalf were as useless as Severus's, for how could Potter possibly keep the Dark Lord out when the man's very soul was kept safe inside him?

Severus felt an invisible hand closing around his throat, recalling her standing before him only an hour earlier, her pulse jumping above her clavicle, the way her skin whitened so that the scar he'd first noticed at Horace's gods-awful party stood out garishly. "_You could die, you great—" _And then he thought of the girl as she had been that night, days before, all damp hair and tired eyes. She had grinned at him as though. . .

Miss Granger had forgiven him, incredibly, for what she saw that night; she would never forgive him this.

He buried his face in his hands. "Why?" he whispered. He raised his head a fraction and looked at Albus, who had raised a questioning eyebrow. "Why make me—why allow Miss Granger to continue with her ridiculous notions of teaching Potter to Occlude when there is no hope that he can. . ." He broke off, breathing raggedly.

Albus's face was stony. "I think you know, my boy, that I could not allow Hermione to know the truth." He narrowed his eyes. "I want your word, Severus, that you will not speak to her of this."

_Of course not_. "You have it," Severus said wearily.

"Besides," Dumbledore continued, "Harry should learn to Occlude; Voldemort is not the only person who would like to get inside his head. If he is ever taken, imagine the fun that Bellatrix could have—"

Severus shuddered. "Enough," he said hoarsely, pressing his face back into his palms. Bellatrix would have no trouble breaking Potter, Occlumency or no. She would have no trouble breaking. . . anyone. He shoved the heels of his hands harder against his eye sockets, willing away the thought of that mad witch trying to get through Miss Granger's defenses. Gods above. Everything was crumbling.

"But this is touching, Severus," Dumbledore said, studying the younger man intently. "Have you grown to care for the boy, after all?" ++

Severus raised his head and stared at him, incredulous. "For _him_?" he spat. Without thinking, he reached for his wand. "_Expecto Patronum_!" he shouted, and watched with Albus as the silvery doe leapt from his wand-tip. She was so piercingly beautiful, and Severus's relief at seeing that she was unchanged was so great, that it hurt to look at her for too long. She was proof, he thought, that his slip over Lily's name meant nothing; that Albus's insinuations, and his own doubts, about his feelings about Miss Granger were utterly unfounded. Severus kept his arm raised until the doe disappeared, then lowered it, shaking, to his side. ++

Albus's eyes were suspiciously bright. "After all this time?" ++

Severus nodded, allowing his hair to swing across his face, brushing his cheekbones. "Always," he muttered, the word like a prayer. ++

. . . . .

A/N: _The ++ signifies that all or some of the dialogue in the paragraph comes from DH._


	14. Loos'd of limits and imaginary lines

Disclaimer: Not mine! Etc, etc, etc.

. . . . .

In the weeks following Dumbledore's revelation, the heavy, gnarled lump his stomach had recently become tightened painfully each time Severus noted that Potter and Miss Granger were missing from the Gryffindor table at dinner.

"_Thank you for being honest with me,"_ the blasted girl had said on that surreal night after the Order meeting, and he'd had no response except to gape at her like a fool, for never once could he recall anyone wanting to know the truth of him, much less accepting it like a gift. How trampled her trust in him would be, once she learned about Potter's purpose, and his own knowledge of it. The thought made him sick, and it was all he could do to meet her eyes without flinching when she raised her hand for the umpteenth-bloody-time in class. Not to mention Potter's Lily-green, diamond-hard glare, which flattened his lungs and made his breath come short.

Staring broodingly out over the four House tables, marking the spot where Miss Granger should be—but was not—sitting, Severus wondered how she was getting on with teaching Potter, whether, as she had implied all those months ago, her friendship with the boy was affording her better luck than he'd had.

Even if it was, even if Potter learned sufficiently well to keep her out of his head—she would still have failed, in the end. _They_ would still have failed. The boy would die, Lily's sacrifice would be in vain, his lessons with Miss Granger and hers with Potter—all of it would come to nothing.

He clenched his hand around his goblet and ignored the voice at the back of his mind that _would_ insist on noting that saving the lives of thousands of witches and wizards and Muggles could not quite be counted as "nothing."

Not to mention the strangeness of his thinking of himself and Miss Granger together as a "they."

. . . . .

"God _damn_ it, Harry!"

"Shit! Hermione, I'm sorry, here—" He reached down a hand. Hermione grasped it and let him pull her to her feet, then shook him off irritably, rubbing her tailbone.

"How many times have I told you to _stop with the sodding Shield Charms?"_ she asked, glaring at him. "You're supposed to be keeping me out using Occlumency, that's what this is all about! If you haven't noticed, Voldemort's not standing in front of you when he gets in your head, so a Shield Charm is absolutely _useless—"_

"I _can't!"_ Harry snapped. His face was red, and he ran a hand frustratedly through his hair, making it messier than ever, then removed his glasses and rubbed at the inner corners of his eyes. "Merlin, Hermione—I think I'm actually getting worse."

The bleakness in his voice stopped Hermione from snapping back at him that if he'd only _work_ at this the way he worked at Quidditch. . .

"It's a difficult skill to master," she said instead, trying for tact, but her voice broke slightly at the end, and she scrubbed at her own eyes with her palms. God, they ached.

Harry snorted. "Yeah. Tell me about it." He put his glasses back on. "Face it—it's been almost a month, and I'm no better than I was when we started."

She wanted to contradict him, but the words lodged in her throat. That first lesson, she'd been whipped with sickening swiftness through memories of Harry's childhood, in which he was chased around a very beige living room by an enormous boy who had to be his cousin, Dudley, or shouted at by a horse-faced woman who looked at him as though he were something sub-human, or curled in a nest of tatty blankets at the bottom of a very narrow, low-ceilinged cupboard, neither crying nor yelling nor sleeping, just staring at the cupboard door as though waiting for it to be opened, unnaturally silent for a boy so small. It was obvious that Harry had no natural defenses against Legilimency, so she'd pulled out, and set him the task of clearing his mind each night, offering him her own rose garden imagery as an example of something to focus on.

In their subsequent lessons, she'd been treated to images of Harry racing neck-and-neck with Draco Malfoy after the Snitch, the wind and rain buffeting their bodies and making their broom handles slick and dangerous; Harry losing at chess to Ron; Harry's panicked humiliation as he stumbled his way through the opening dance of the Yule Ball, Parvati hissing instructions into his ear with a tight-lipped smile. Harry standing before the Mirror of Erised, looking at the image of his parents standing behind his own reflection: James Potter a taller, more polished version of his eleven-year-old son, Lily Potter a slim, strangely familiar red-haired beauty with Harry's striking green eyes. Harry facing the return to the Dursleys' after their first year at Hogwarts, his chest tight with longing as he said good-bye to Hagrid and stepped onboard the Express.

And Harry never, ever, over a month of dinnertime lessons (so planned because he refused, point blank, to reschedule any Quidditch practices, and she was so overwhelmed by homework and Apparition lessons and her own self-assigned research projects, that she was glad not to cut into study time), blocked her access to anything, until the day that, exasperated, Hermione provoked him by purposely seeking out images that would be especially discomfiting. He let her watch his awkward date with Cho Chang the year before, and even allowed her to feel the way his stomach flipped when Ginny flashed him a grin across the Quidditch pitch during practice.

Then she was watching Snape circling the Potions classroom like a predatory shadow, and through Harry's eyes he was ugly, greasy, pathetic, and mean, and Hermione wanted to pull away because the Snape Harry saw was not the Snape she knew, and it felt wrong, _wrong_ to view him like this, even vicariously.

Instead, she tried to be practical and used her magic to push forward again. Harry's mind began to beat rather frantically around her as Hermione caught the thread of his memory of Occlumency lessons with their professor and followed it.

It was bizarre-seeing Harry's memory of memory-Harry's memories whipping through memory-Harry's mind as Snape looked on. She could feel her friend's mounting panic, trumping even the revulsion his memory-self felt at being in such close proximity to their professor. She continued to push-there, the Shield Charm Harry'd told her about, Snape's body going oddly slack, his face horrified and furious and humiliated, and Hermione felt her throat close, watching the image of his child-self, tiny and dirty and wearing some sort of ridiculous smock, cowering in a corner, palms pressed against his ears to block out the sound of his parents' raised voices. There were no tears on his grimy cheeks, but he flinched when something shattered in the next room.

Unable to bear seeing any more, not in front of Harry, Hermione thrust forward again, perhaps a touch too aggressively, for suddenly they were past Snape's probing of Harry's mind, and she was watching as memory-Harry glanced furtively over one shoulder before tipping his face forward until it breached the shimmering liquid in the wide-brimmed bowl sitting before him. Then the real memory of Snape's humiliation at Sirius and James Potter's hands began to play out, and then suddenly she was out of Harry's head, his nonverbal _Protego_ thrusting an invisible wall between them, and his wand was out and pointing at her, and he wouldn't meet her eyes.

Today, she was in a graveyard, warm and still, staring in horror at Cedric Diggory's dead, expressionless face, and then she was watching through Harry's eyes as her memory-self was struck across the chest by a Death Eater's silent curse in the Department of Mysteries, falling backward, looking terrified, but not as terrified and helpless as Harry felt watching, his mind screaming that it was his fault, all his fault, they were all going to die and it was _his fault—_

His _Protego_ this time was shouted, and so strong it sent her flying, until she landed, hard, on her bottom.

Now, Hermione shook her head helplessly. "I don't know what I'm doing wrong," she whispered. Everything seemed to be falling apart. Being inside Harry's head had made it clear that his thoughts were disorganized; whereas Snape's mind had reminded her of a series of closed, warded doors, her friend's was a free-for-all, and she was beginning to despair of his ever getting it under control. And something. . . there was some difference between Legilimizing Snape and Harry, some elusive but fundamental thing that made her worry that she was the one hindering Harry from making any progress. Her jaw tightened. She _hated_ doing badly, and this was so important.

Harry cleared his throat. "You know—I don't really see much point in trying anymore," he said. Hermione looked at him sharply, and he scowled. "If I haven't gotten the hang of it at least somewhat by this point, I don't think I ever will."

She swallowed hard, looking at Harry's earnest-defiant expression. "You _have_ been clearing your mind at night?" she asked him. "Did you try the visualization. . ?"

"Yes," he muttered. "But it doesn't—it doesn't work. There's always something buzzing around, some thought. And. . ." He flushed. "You know, I don't have a rose garden."

She blinked. "Oh, Harry," she whispered. Of course he didn't; if being in his mind had taught her anything about her friend, it was that he'd skimped on a lot of the awful details of his childhood.

Harry looked embarrassed. "Er—let's get going, yeah?" he mumbled.

"All right." Hermione gave him a small smile and hefted her satchel. "I've got a little time before curfew—I'm going to the library."

He looked relieved that she was letting the subject drop. "Surprise, surprise," he said with a slight grin. She wrinkled her nose at him, then turned the corner, wriggling her fingers over her shoulder as they parted ways.

. . . . .

Severus shivered, hunching closer to his desk. His rooms, normally something of a haven, were suddenly too dark, and far too bloody cold. The late-winter chill seemed to be seeping through the castle's very foundations, wrapping itself around him until even the warmth of the fire couldn't penetrate.

He looked down at the essay he'd been marking for the past half-hour, and grimaced, rubbing a hand over his face. He was so damn tired, dreams of Potter's death, and Lily's howls of grief, and Miss Granger's accusing gaze forcing him awake, shaking and covered in sweat, almost every night since Albus finally-irony of bloody-fucking-ironies-consented to let Severus a little further into his confidence. The previous night, he'd awoken, tangled in his sheets, from a dream in which Potter tried to slice the Dark Lord's soul out of his own body while Dumbledore looked on placidly, his blackened hand on Severus' shoulder preventing the younger man from intervening.

Severus shoved back from his desk, rubbing at his arms to warm them. He looked about him restlessly; the room seemed dim, even with all the sconces lit and the fire blazing away. The silence was oppressive. Before he could think the better of it, he had gathered up the remaining, ungraded essays and left his quarters, pausing only to set his wards before seeking the warmth of the floors above, and what would undoubtedly be the inane chatter of his colleagues in the staff room.

. . . . .

The library smelled of leather and parchment, ink and dust. Comforting smells, which made Hermione feel steadier. She nodded at Madam Pince, then made for her favorite corner, a table tucked deep in the stacks among the History of Magic texts where almost no one else ever ventured. She unloaded the books she'd been studying lately during her every spare moment onto the tabletop; they made an impressive pile, but looking at them, Hermione felt deflated. She'd hoped they would give her answers, help her protect the people she cared about most, but instead, they seemed like so much busywork, a way of making herself feel useful in the face of overwhelming evidence that she was horribly out of her depth.

She sank into a chair and put her head in her hands. What was she doing wrong? She'd used the same incantation, she and Harry had faced each other the same way that she and Snape had during their lessons. She'd certainly gotten into his mind. And yet—something was different. Harry's mind was chaotic and troubled, she _could_ feel him, the hot-tempered, blunt, brave, caring, moody, terrified boy she knew. But she couldn't feel as much as she knew, from her lessons with Snape, she should be able to.

It was unsettling, really, how dissimilar the two experiences were. Snape's mind just felt different from Harry's, in some maddeningly indefinable way. Like the difference between experiencing life and watching a really good movie. Except no, that wasn't quite it, either.

Sighing, Hermione finally pulled one of her books forward. Feeling useful was at least preferable to the alternative. And maybe this would be the night she found some of the answers she was looking for. If not, she knew she'd have to go to Snape. She hadn't taken him up on his surprising offer to come talk with him after their lessons ended—or rather, she thought with a slight smile, his surprising assent to her request to come talk with him. She'd hoped to have news of her success with Harry to bring to him triumphantly, something to prove he hadn't wasted his time by teaching her. Instead, every dinnertime session she and Harry spent—with Dobby happily supplying them with sandwiches and pumpkin juice, at Harry's request—fruitlessly trying to get him to Occlude made her more and more reluctant to seek their professor out, not wanting him to know how thoroughly she'd failed. And as her awareness of the strange disparity between Legilimizing Snape and Harry grew into a sort of constant, uncomfortable, nagging thing, she grew determined to understand why for herself, if she could. She'd empty Hogwarts' library of every resource it had on the subject before she subjected herself to that embarrassment.

Though why, exactly, she had reason to be embarrassed, Hermione couldn't quite figure out.

. . . . .

The staff room was largely empty. Only Pomona Sprout and Charity Burbage were there, sitting cozily at a small table, their heads bowed together over a long piece of parchment. Both witches looked up when Severus pushed the door open with the tips of his fingers and snuck a glance around the edge; seeing that he had been observed, he scowled and entered the room, striding past their table to one nearer the fireplace, where he sat with his back to the two women.

"It's a pleasant surprise to see you this evening, Severus," Pomona said. "It must be awfully draughty down in the dungeons this time of year."

Severus stiffened and looked at her over his shoulder; the older woman smiled at him, no trace of mockery evident in her expression. Flicking his eyes in Burbage's direction, he saw that she was watching him a trifle apprehensively, as though he were some sort of creature whose nature, and potential threat, she was still trying to figure out. Involuntarily, he felt his lips twist into a sneer before glancing back at Pomona.

"Indeed," he said shortly. She looked a trifle irritated that Severus was making no real attempt at polite small talk, but he turned around so that his back was to them once again, and tried to concentrate on the atrociously stupid essays his students had turned in the day before.

For several minutes, the only sounds were his quill scratching comments in the essays' margins, the crackle of the fire, and the occasional rustle of parchment or creak of a chair as one of the room's other occupants shifted position. Severus felt a small amount of the tension in his neck and shoulders ease. Then, from behind him, he heard Pomona say, "Well, I don't know much about these sorts of things, of course, but this seems a well-enough-reasoned defense."

Severus stopped writing, feeling the hairs at the nape of his neck prickle ominously.

"Oh, good," her companion said. "Another revision, and I'd've gone 'round the twist." There was a pause; Severus forced himself not to turn around. "Not too emotional, then?" Burbage ventured.

"Oh, I don't know, dear," Pomona replied, her tone thoughtful. "It's rather an emotional subject, eh? Too academic, and nobody'll have any idea what you're on about."

The prickling intensified, and Severus abruptly stood, swinging to face his colleagues. "What _are_ you on about, Professor Burbage?" he asked, stepping toward their table. He flicked a glance from the two witches' startled faces to the marked-up parchment in front of them.

"Severus, really," Pomona said. "It's a special project of Charity's, you can read it when it goes to print-"

He raised a brow at Burbage, his chest tightening. "Indeed? A new academic paper, perhaps?" he asked through gritted teeth.

She studied him for a moment, then forced a smile, possibly encouraged by what, to someone who didn't know him well, might actually be interpreted as genuine, unmotivated interest. "No," she said, tapping the parchment with one index finger. "It's a letter I'm planning to send to the Prophet-Pomona was kind enough to read it over for me." She paused, licking her lips nervously as Severus continued to stare at her. "I'm sure you're aware of the. . . of what's been happening to Muggle-borns' families," she said finally. "I think it's horrible-a disgrace. Someone needs to come to their defense, and since Muggles and their culture are my areas of expertise-"

Quicker than thought, Severus lunged forward, snatching up the parchment. Burbage gave a startled yelp, and Pomona an indignant squawk, but he ignored them, his eyes scanning the page with mounting panic. Finally, he held the parchment up, looking at Burbage incredulously.

"You arrogant fool!" he hissed. Then he touched the tip of his wand to the page, snarled, _"Incendio,"_ and tossed the now-burning parchment back onto the table.

Then, not even bothering to gather his essays together, he turned on his heel and left the staff room.

. . . . .

Cursing under his breath, Severus strode through the halls, barely pausing to acknowledge the Bloody Baron's nod as the ghost drifted past. Of all the idiotic, _dunderheaded_ conceits—Burbage was stupider even than he'd first thought. Writing to the Prophet! What the hell did she propose to gain from such a stunt? How could the woman be so short-sighed—even if the brainless twits who took that rag seriously understood the full implications of her appeal, she was making herself, the school, anyone who wrote letters to the paper agreeing with her, into targets for the Dark Lord.

Hardly aware of where he was headed, only knowing he had no wish to return to his quarters, Severus paused when he found himself in front of the library doors. He stared at them, heavy dark wood set into stone, and suddenly wanted nothing more than to seek the place that had once been his solace when he was a student. He slammed both palms into the doors with all the force of his anger and frustration, flinging them open so hard they cracked against the wall. Irma Pince glowered at him from her seat behind the circulation desk, making little sputtering sounds of rage that didn't begin to approach coherence. Severus ignored her, stalking past her desk, past the tables, which were fortunately empty because Merlin save any student who so much as _breathed_ the wrong way right then, and headed into the depths of the stacks, seeking the Restricted Section with its worn armchairs and the small window with its view of the lake. It had been one of his favorite hiding spots as a student, once he managed to get a pass to go there regularly; the Restricted Section was oddly cozy, if one ignored the occasional hiss or growl from some of the unfriendlier texts.

He was nearly there when he happened to glance down one ill-lit aisle. Sitting at a table, half-hidden by a teetering stack of books, was Hermione Granger. She was bent over another large text, frowning in concentration and twisting a strand of hair around one finger. The rest of it sprang about her head and shoulders like something that, in and of itself, was alert and alive.

It had been weeks since he'd had occasion to see the girl outside his classroom, and it wasn't until this moment that he realized how much energy he'd invested in avoiding thoughts of her, of the oddly companionable rapport they'd built.

Suddenly, Miss Granger made a sort of tea-kettle whistle of exasperation and pushed the book a few inches away from her. She shoved her hair back from her face, giving Severus a good look at her expression: drawn and tired, and somehow defeated.

Belatedly, Severus realized that he was staring, and turned hastily to leave. The movement must have caught the girl's eye, however, for she looked up, her abstracted gaze sharpening into recognition.

"Hi," she said, some inflection in her voice that he couldn't interpret.

Severus nodded brusquely. "Miss Granger," he acknowledged, and was relieved when his own voice betrayed none of the unease he felt. He turned his back on her and moved a bit farther along the shelves, trailing one finger randomly along the leather spines until he heard the creak of her own book's binding and the rustle of parchment as she turned a page. His other hand clenched into a fist at his side; why wasn't he leaving?

A moment later, she spoke hesitantly from behind him. "How are you?" she asked.

Severus closed his eyes, and kept them closed for a long moment before turning. "Splendid," he bit out. "Never better, in fact."

She blinked, then grinned, her face suddenly as animated as her incredible, ridiculous hair.

Severus, to his surprise, found himself smiling faintly in return, though he stopped immediately when her own smile snuffed itself out like a candle, something akin to panic appearing in her eyes. Suddenly uncertain whom he was more angry with—Burbage for her stupidity, Dumbledore for his plotting, Miss Granger for her smile, or himself for responding to it, he marched forward, bending down to get a look at what she was reading.

Miss Granger did not shrink away from him, but he heard her breath hitch and stutter when he bent close, and when he glanced at her from the corner of his eye, she swallowed convulsively, lowering her own gaze. Disconcerted, Severus raked his eyes over the titles of her books. His brows rose toward his hairline, and for a moment, he forgot the strange, charged awkwardness between them. She had books about curses piled on top of books of Advanced Charms and the theory behind Apparition. Tucked near the bottom of the stack was a slim, battered book entitled _Understanding the Unbreakable: A beginner's guide to Unbreakable Vows._ Severus's breath caught, and he hastily glanced instead at the tome that was open in front of her—what appeared to be a very dry treatise about Legilimency.

"And how go your lessons with Mr. Potter?" he asked in a low voice, straightening, the better to look down his nose at her.

Miss Granger's face went scarlet. Severus crossed his arms and raised a brow. _Interesting._

"Um." She tapped one raggedly-bitten nail against the tabletop, and looked at him sideways. "I was hoping you wouldn't ask that."

"Indeed?" Severus said. "Can it be that our esteemed hero is proving exactly as adept in this matter as he is in so many others?"

She shook her hair from her eyes and glared at him for a moment, before suddenly jumping to her feet. She opened her satchel and began cramming books into it.

"That," Miss Granger hissed as she hefted a particularly thick text, "is _exactly_ why I haven't wanted to talk to you about this." She threw the satchel over one shoulder. "I _knew_ your first reaction would be to denigrate Harry." She turned to go.

Severus stared, struck dumb, at her retreating form for several seconds before striding after her down the aisle. Despite the girl's haste, he easily caught up with her.

"Miss Granger," he growled. When she didn't stop, he reached out and grabbed her by the upper arm, releasing her immediately when she faced him, her expression more desperate than angry, her face still an unflattering red.

Severus looked at her silently for a moment, then began walking. "Follow me," he said, and forced himself not look over his shoulder to see if she was obeying.

. . . . .

Hermione kept her distance as she walked behind Snape, struggling to get her thoughts and emotions under control. She followed him through the stacks, stopping when he did in front of a closed, warded door.

"The Restricted Section?" she said, then waited for Snape to take points for stating the obvious.

Instead, he merely touched his wand to the door, which swung open silently. "As you see," he said, and walked inside.

Hermione had been through the Restricted Section more than once, but always on the sly, and she'd always been in too much of a hurry, terrified of being found out, to really appreciate how nice a room it was. Four armchairs, covered in brocade fabric worn down by time and countless bottoms to a smooth, glossy texture, sat near the only window, which looked out over the grounds. The moonlight reflecting off the lake and a number of wall sconces provided the only light; when she finally looked at Snape, he had seated himself in one of the armchairs, legs crossed at the ankle and fingers steepled before his face. His eyes, as usual, revealed little, the flickering of the candles lending them a sinister glitter.

Hermione stood uncertainly in the center of the room. "It's nearly curfew," she said. "I should probably get back to the Tower—"

"As it is I who required your presence," Snape interrupted, eyes never leaving her face, "I shall, of course, provide you with a note." He gestured toward the chair across from him. "Sit."

She narrowed her eyes, letting irritation get the better of her, and didn't move.

Snape eyed her, then straightened; for a moment, he seemed as uncertain as she felt, and Hermione had set down her bag and was moving toward the chair even before he added, very quietly, "Please."

They regarded each other for a moment after she sat. Hermione's heart started thudding at an alarming speed, and she was the first to lower her eyes, suddenly terrified that he would read the truth in them. He'd made a joke, back in the library common, and then he'd smiled, the smallest hitch of his mouth, the lines about his eyes and lips soft-looking rather than harsh. She'd had the strangest urge, looking at that faintly-there smile, to touch him—to run her palms over his thin, craggy face, dip her thumbs into the creases beside his mouth, card her fingers through his hair.

Something of what she was feeling must have shown in her expression, for Snape's smile had disappeared, and she'd jerked her eyes away from his, her mouth dry. What was the _matter_ with her? And then he'd come nearer, and there was the mortifyingly appealing scent of him, and she couldn't bring herself to face him again. And then he insulted Harry—naturally, he insulted Harry—and every ounce of her embarrassment transfigured instantly into anger.

Now, he said, "There's no use dancing around it, Miss Granger. What's happened with Potter's lessons? Because I've no doubt the headmaster will shortly decide the boy's lack of progress. . ." Then he cut himself off, scowled, and said, "A straight answer, girl-am I correct in the assumption that Potter is not learning as quickly as you'd like?"

Hermione nodded, tightening her jaw until it positively ached.

"Ah. As I was saying, I've no doubt Dumbledore will shortly decide Potter's lack of progress is due to some deficiency in the education I provided you. I've no desire to spend an hour defending myself-"

"It's my fault."

Snape looked as if he had half a mind to snap at her for interrupting. Then he sighed. "Why?"

Hermione crossed her arms and looked away from him, speaking to the faintly rumbling, muttering books on the nearest set of shelves. "It must be," she said. "It just-it doesn't feel right."

Snape gave her an irritated glance. "Miss Granger-for Merlin's sake, just tell me what is going on before I strangle you."

Hermione choked on a laugh, but sobered quickly enough, feeling her face getting hot. "Had you Legilimized many people before me?" she finally asked.

Snape looked at her steadily for a moment before answering. "Several," he said, finally, still watching her. "Why do you ask?"

She slid her eyes sideways. "Well. . . I haven't, you know, and. . ." A pause. "Can you-can you tell me whether they all felt the same?"

He was silent; when she finally dared look at him again, she was surprised to see a dull flush on his sallow cheeks. He cleared his throat. "As each person's mind is unique," he said carefully, "you could certainly have figured out, yourself, that each feels different."

"That's not what I-" Hermione broke off, flustered. Yes, clearly, Snape's mind and Harry's were different-they were different people, after all. And yet, there was more to it than that. The movie metaphor she'd thought of earlier was apt enough; being in Harry's mind, in his memories, she felt sympathy, of course, and cared deeply about what had happened to him. But that was all. But Snape's mind-how was it that she was so much more comfortable there, so much more. . . _ensconced_ than she was in one of her dearest friend's? "Comfortable" was not an adjective she would ever have used to describe her professor-brilliant, yes, even funny, in his own, dry way, but also prickly and impatient and defensive and self-righteous to the point of ridiculousness. But also, sometimes, kind.

"I think I must be doing something wrong," she said slowly. "With Harry."

"Why?" Snape asked.

She shrugged. "I must be. He's not picking it up-I swear, he hasn't gotten any better since we started. And. . ." She paused. "It just. . . It doesn't feel _right_ when I'm in his head."

He frowned. "How so?"

"I. . . Well. I get in-I see his memories, I can go through them. But he hasn't been able to stop me at all, except for a couple of times when he used a Shield Charm-"

Snape gave a sort of furious, wordless growl, and she hastened to continue.

"-And really, I can't figure out whether he's just not. . . not trying, but he swears he is and he seems so upset when he doesn't succeed, so really, I think it's all my fault. Because it feels so different."

Her professor was frowning. "You're babbling," he snapped. "Exactly _what_ feels different?"

"His mind!" Hermione said. "Harry's mind-being in it is not like being in. . . in yours. It's like. . ."

She chanced a glance at Snape; he wasn't bothering to hide his impatience. He quirked an eyebrow-and suddenly, inexplicably, Hermione knew, with a rush of embarrassment, what the difference was. It was like the difference between kissing Viktor and kissing McLaggen; touching Viktor, kissing him, making him come, had made Hermione feel tender towards him in a way that kissing McLaggen had not and never, ever could. And though she and Viktor had not lasted as a couple-the result of the physical distance between England and Bulgaria, along with the fact that when they weren't snogging, he never talked enough to really challenge her-there had been sweetness between them, physical compatibility, and a sort of friendship born of two relative misfits finding one another for a brief time. Was it the same with minds, she wondered, as it was with bodies? Flustered, she lowered her gaze to her hands.

Snape was very still, looking at her. Finally, he said slowly, "I think you have forgotten our earliest lessons. Did I not tell you that one either has the aptitude for these disciplines, or one does not?"

Hermione nodded, her eyes widening.

"Mr. Potter is. . ." He seemed to think the better of whatever he had been about to say about Harry, and said instead, "I was. . . skeptical, when Professor Dumbledore asked me to teach Mr. Potter last year, and I was quickly discouraged by the disarray I found inside his head. He seemed unlikely to ever become. . . truly proficient as an Occlumens, and from what you have experienced thus far, I may have been overly optimistic in thinking he could Occlude at all."

Hermione nodded slowly. For once, Snape's tone was neither vitriolic nor disparaging; he was simply telling her the truth. "Then why did you agree to teach me?"

He sighed. "I hoped I was wrong," he said simply. "I thought. . . I thought he had to learn. Now. . ." He looked unaccountably angry for a moment. "Now, I think you ought to cease trying."

Hermione bit back a protest-_Harry has to learn, Voldemort will trick him again, please, please, please, something has to change-!_ There was a gravity to Snape's voice, something frightening, which chilled her. Instead, she asked, "Why?"

"I cannot tell you that," Snape said, and he looked rather wild. After an uncomfortable silence, he added, "To answer your other question more fully. . . I have Legilimized only a few people in my life, most of them in the service to the Dark Lord. Being in their minds was very unlike being inside my own; I was an observer, nothing more. There was no real connection."

Hermione jerked her eyes up to meet his; Snape held hers for a moment, his unspoken implication loud in the air between them.

After a moment, Snape said, his voice sounding strangled, "Your choice of reading is quite. . . eclectic."

Hermione struggled against the sudden urge to laugh, her blood roaring in her ears. "I guess you could say that," she managed. "They're all. . . Well, none have been much help, to be honest, but I've been trying to research some questions that have come up recently. . ."

"Such as?"

She paused, uncertain what to say. He'd been honest with her, at least as far as he could be, about the Unbreakable Vow. Would that honesty extend to other matters, as well, she wondered, or would the old Professor Snape suddenly reappear, in all his nasty, insulting glory?

Only one way to find out. "What's wrong with Professor Dumbledore?"

Snape let out a loud breath and gave her a hard look. Then he crossed one leg over the other and leaned back in his chair, looking for all the world as if they were discussing something inane, like the weather. Or Quidditch.

"There are far too many things "wrong" with the headmaster to enumerate them all now, if we're to have you tucked safely in your dormitory at a decent hour," he said, smirking slightly.

Hermione bit back an amused snort with difficulty.

"Not," Snape added, brushing some invisible bit of lint from his sleeve, "that I will ever admit to having said such a thing." He stood, and all trace of levity vanished from his face. "This was a mistake," he said abruptly, and Hermione felt she knew what he meant, though his statement was vague enough. They both of them had too many secrets to protect-Snape far, far more than she, most likely. Conversation would forever be strained between them, now.

She felt, absurdly, like crying.

Snape had pulled a scrap of parchment from somewhere upon his person, and snapped at her to give him a quill from her bag. Hermione did so silently, then watched as he scrawled an excuse for her, in case she was stopped in the halls. Then Snape handed both parchment and quill back to her, his eyes lidded, and made to leave the room.

"Wait," she said. He glanced back at her over his shoulder, looking wary.

Hermione shifted, her shoulder already beginning to ache from the weight of all the books in her satchel. Then she took a deep breath and said, "I know. . . Well, think I know. . . that Professor Dumbledore's been cursed." She paused to assess Snape's response, but he only continued to look at her. She swallowed.

"Right. So. I've been reading up on degenerative curses, because I noticed a while back that the, er, _grey_ has been moving up his arm. And it seems to hurt him, sometimes." Again, she ventured a look at her professor; he was utterly still, but it seemed to Hermione that it was the same sort of stillness Crookshanks adopted when he'd spotted his prey: feral, wide-eyed, and a prelude to much bottom-and-tail-wriggling and pouncing.

Hermione took an involuntary step back.

"Um. The books I've looked at don't have anything that quite matches Professor Dumbledore's symptoms, at least what I've seen of them, but they all. . ." She licked her lips and said, before she could lose her nerve, "Every last one of them makes it clear that curses with such clear physical manifestations need to be broken as soon as possible. He's been like this for months, and with the greyness getting worse. . ." She took a deep breath.

"Professor-is the headmaster dying?"

If she hadn't spent so much time with the man over the past months, Hermione might have missed the tightening about his lips, the flash in his eyes, that signaled Snape's pain at her words. She knew that, joking about what was wrong with Dumbledore aside, Snape had some sort of bond with the older wizard that she didn't entirely understand. She'd seen him furious with Dumbledore; she'd watched as his safety was put consistently behind other considerations, culminating in that horrible night with the Order at Grimmauld Place. And yet, Hermione was certain she hadn't imagined his expression, though it was there and gone again faster than a blink. Perhaps it was to do with the fact that Dumbledore had given Snape a second chance after, for whatever reason, he finally left the Death Eaters. A dangerous, thankless second chance, but still.

Something felt rather cracked and broken under her sternum when Snape finally answered her in his usual smooth voice.

"Always the know-it-all," he said.

Hermione shrugged apologetically. "I'm sorry," she said, though whether she meant for asking the question or for being right, she wasn't sure. Probably both.

Snape raked a hand through his hair. When he faced her again, his dark eyes flickered from her face to the open neck of her blouse and back again. "How did that happen?" he demanded abruptly, waving a hand in the general direction of her chest.

She flushed, cupping her palm protectively over her scar. "In the Ministry last Spring," she said. "A Death Eater got me rather badly."

Snape stared at her for a moment, then growled, "Of all the incompetent-" He cut himself off and glared at her; Hermione felt her blush deepen. God, how she hated feeling stupid in front of him, but there was no denying it-incompetent was a pretty accurate description of their Department of Mysteries break-in.

A pause, until it became apparent that Hermione wasn't going to say anything else. With a frustrated noise and a muttered, "Don't be an idiot and go telling Potter about the headmaster," he was gone.

. . . . .

Professor Dumbledore was dying.

Professor Dumbledore was dying.

Professor _sodding_ Dumbledore was dying.

Hermione had been fairly certain her assessment of the situation was accurate, but to have Snape confirm it. . .

Despite everything she was coming to sense about Dumbledore, all the things she was beginning to dislike and distrust, Hermione couldn't help but remember her first view of him, to her Muggle-born eyes, he was every inch the fairy tale wizard with his long white beard and bright robes, his arms outstretched, his mouth a broad, beaming smile. Above him, the ceiling of the Great Hall shone with thousands and thousands of stars, and it seemed as if Dumbledore had summoned them down from the heavens to twinkle above the heads of his students. _You are special,_ he seemed to be saying. _You are important. You are talented. You are welcome, here._

This would kill Harry

Hermione reached out a hand blindly across her duvet, her throat closing up, her eyes stinging. To her relief, Crookshanks lifted his head, allowed her to scratch behind his ears, and bumped at her palm with his nose before curling up and going back to sleep.

Right. She should follow his example. Hermione turned on her side, struggling to block all thoughts of what Dumbledore's death would do to her friend.

To the Order.

To Snape.

Did he even have a contingency plan in place? Knowing Dumbledore, he probably did. It was probably also, given what she was beginning to glean of the way the man ran the Order, convoluted as hell and something he wasn't going to divulge to just anyone.

She realized belatedly that she was clearly not blocking thoughts of Dumbledore. At this rate, she'd never get to sleep.

Resolutely, she closed her eyes. Almost immediately, appearing as if conjured behind her eyelids, Snape's scowling face appeared. Her eyes snapped open.

She was grateful beyond belief that their private lessons were finished. The possibility that her Occlumency might slip, that Snape might see her insight from that evening-that she'd likened being inside his head to kissing Viktor Krum-

There was no good way for him to interpret that. _She_ wasn't even certain how to interpret it. Though Snape was more likely to think she was making fun of him than anything else.

Hermione wondered how many people he'd kissed. Until very recently, she'd seen him as a sort of asexual being, all snark and black robes and brain. The fact that he was male didn't matter; not only was he her professor, which automatically-except for one embarrassing aberration in her second year that didn't bear thinking about-put him in the genderless, life-beyond-the-classroomless category into which she childishly put all of her teachers, but he was. . . Snape.

But in his memories, she remembered the way he'd followed that red-haired girl with his eyes. The way he'd stood beside her by the lake and _wanted._

Had he ever kissed that girl? Hermione closed her eyes, picturing the hard way the girl had looked at him on the train, disappointment and disgust and. . .

Green eyes.

Hermione's own eyes opened again. _No._

Bugger. She was _never_ going to fall asleep.

. . . . .

Severus was so fucking tired. Exhaustion was nothing new to him; _this_ was. He'd had so little sleep since he found out Potter's purpose, he felt he might shatter. He was shaky and weak and his eyes ached. And his head ached. And his skin felt stretched. A disgusting amount of coffee was the only thing keeping him even vaguely functional.

As such, it was taking him longer than usual to get through the week's stack of sub-par student papers. He'd retrieved those he left in the staff room after his. . . discussion. . . with Miss Granger. Luckily for them, both Pomona and Burbage had disappeared by the time he returned.

That had been two nights ago. Yesterday, he'd collected an essay on Stunners from his third years and one on warding from his sixth years. They sat on his desk, mocking him for ever thinking homework punished the students more than the teacher. He sighed and got out his red ink and favorite quill; it was dinnertime, but he felt too queasy to eat.

Ten minutes later, a rap on his classroom door roused Severus from a semi-stupor; he'd read the same sentence at least a dozen times. He blinked, and waited a moment, hoping that whoever it was would go away.

After another knock, Severus pushed back from his desk, dropped the quill, which spattered red ink across the idiotic Mr. Hargrove's essay, and strode through his classroom, intending to throw open the door and deduct House points galore from whomever was stupid enough to attempt to speak to him.

"You'd better hope this is important," he snarled before the door was even fully open.

Miss Granger gave him an uncertain half-smile. "Sort of," she said, and held out one hand; two tiny, shrunken plates bearing steaming shepherd's pies rested in the hollow of her palm.

Severus raised his eyebrows, incredulous.

"I noticed you weren't at dinner," the girl said hurriedly. "I thought maybe we could talk. Unless of course. . ." She broke off, looking embarrassed. "Unless you've already eaten, or have other plans. Or, you know, just don't want to." A faint smile, really a grimace. "It was an impulse."

He snorted, and rubbed a hand tiredly across his eyes. Bloody Gryffindors. Even shrunken, however, the pies did smell good, and Severus found himself stepping back. "Get inside, Miss Granger," he said, then closed the door behind them both. They stood indecisively for a moment, looking at and then away from each other, before Severus grunted.

"In my office," he muttered, and led the way, Miss Granger trailing behind.

She enlarged the pies and set one before each of them, and sat in the uncomfortable chair on the other side of his desk. From somewhere in her ubiquitous knapsack she produced two forks, and handed one to him before taking the other and tucking into her food.

"Stealing the school's cutlery, Miss Granger?" Severus asked, smirking slightly, and was oddly pleased when she smirked back.

The pies were very good, and they both made short work of them. MIss Granger was spearing the last of her peas, and Severus pushed his plate to the side and watched her. He had never invited a student to take dinner with him before-he had never, for that matter, invited any of the staff around for so much as a cup of tea, though Albus, of course, could always be relied upon to pop by whenever the mood struck him. Until recently, at least. But then again, the girl had actually invited himself. Which was even more peculiar.

"Very well," he said finally, when she had pushed her own plate away and sat for several seconds staring silently about his office, her brow furrowed. "I'll bite. What are you doing here?"

"I just. . ." She smiled slightly. "I just wanted to."

Severus snorted his disbelief, and Miss Granger frowned.

"I did!" she protested, sounding exceedingly unhappy that he should doubt it. "I just-you said I could come by and talk. So, I did." She stared down at her hands, clasped together in her lap; Severus found himself looking at them as well-they were small and unremarkable, with ragged cuticles and an ink stain on the finger her quill rested upon when she wrote.

_Nothing like Lily's,_ he found himself thinking. Hers had been long-fingered, elegant, and eloquent, too, dancing through the air to punctuate her words when she spoke. Gods above, Dumbledore was wrong, Severus thought then, fiercely. Both bright, both Gryffindor, both Muggle-born-yes, but there the similarities ended. The girl sitting before him, with her wild hair and ink-stained fingers, was unaware of herself in a way that Lily had never been. Not vain-Lily never primped or coated herself with cosmetics as so many of their peers had-but she was aware of her effect on others, something Severus had come to resent deeply even as he was drawn to her, again and again. And he couldn't imagine coming across Lily in the library, books piled high in front of her, researching topics that had nothing to do with school work. She'd excelled in Potions and Charms, and done well enough in her other classes, but she wasn't an academic, to Severus's private dismay, preferring to be outside watching Quidditch or lolling about with her friends by the lake. She was sunshine to Severus's shadow.

Feeling rather foolish, Severus finally said, "I noticed you were reading about Apparition the other evening. Does that mean you find the Ministry's practical sessions inadequate?"

Small talk. Dear Merlin, he was making small talk.

She looked embarrassed. "Not really. I just. . ." She leaned forward, and said very low, as though imparting some great secret, "I'm afraid."

Severus nearly laughed. "You do not like broom flight," he said instead. "And you are afraid of Apparition. How do you expect to get about, you foolish girl?"

Miss Granger looked rather as though she were resisting the urge to poke her tongue out at him. "There are always Portkeys," she said, "and of course the Floo, at least where it's connected. I don't mind that so much. And if you recall, my family is Muggle; until I got my Hogwarts letter, autos, and planes, and trains that aren't charmed to move on their tracks were the only forms of transport I'd ever known."

Severus leaned toward her in spite of himself. "Can you drive an automobile?"

She nodded. "Yes, my dad taught me over the summer, though I haven't got a license. I wanted to learn; I'll probably be in both worlds my whole life, so I might as well be able to navigate them." She looked at him curiously. "Your father was Muggle-did you ever learn to drive?"

Severus pinched his brows together. "No."

Miss Granger was wise enough not to ask why.

"What is it about broom flight and Apparition that frightens you?" he asked.

She frowned. "Oh. . . everything, I suppose. Flying's so uncontrolled. I don't mind relying on Charms for lots of things, but to keep me aloft, above the clouds, sometimes, on this slender stick when I don't care for heights anyway. . ." She shook her head, making her hair fly about her face. "And Appariton-spinning off into nothingness! It's terrifying." She grinned. "So I'm determined to learn the theory; the more I know about something, the less it frightens me."

Severus raised his eyebrows. "But you'll fly in a Muggle aeroplane?"

"It feels more secure than a broom. It's solid," she said, then laughed. "And they serve snacks."

"So it is the feeling of security you need, not its reality," Severus said. His words were mocking, but he felt merely thoughtful.

She smiled faintly and shrugged. "Madam Hooch. . . It's not that she's a bad teacher, but it seems like flying comes as naturally to her as breathing. She couldn't understand why I had so much trouble with it. The same with Harry and Ginny, those times they tried to teach me at Headquarters and the Burrow."

"And Mr. Weasley?" Severus lidded his eyes.

Miss Granger snorted inelegantly. "Ron thinks it's funny that there's something he's so much better at than I am."

Severus scowled. "Indeed."

The girl shot him a look that he couldn't interpret, then said suddenly, "Maybe you can teach me to fly properly someday."

He stared at her.

She laughed. "And in return, I can teach you to drive a car. I'm really quite good."

Severus's mouth dropped open, but no sound came out.

. . . . .

Hermione enjoyed Snape's bemused expression for a few seconds, then took pity on him. "Do you miss anything from the Muggle world?" she asked.

Snape traced his mouth with one finger; she tracked its progress, her own mouth hanging open rather stupidly. "Films," he said finally. "I have not seen a film since I was a boy."

"Oh, I love movies," Hermione said eagerly. "Not so much the telly, it's usually rather boring, but there's something about being in a theater, in the dark, surrounded by people all experiencing what's going on onscreen together. It's-"

"Magical," Snape finished for her, his lips quirking. "Yes, that's how I felt, too."

"Mmm." Hermione smiled. "Why haven't you gone since you were a child?" she asked. "In the summers, when Hogwarts is closed, surely you could find a cinema-"

"The one in my neighborhood closed long ago," Snape interrupted. Hermione was surprised by the implication that he still lived in a Muggle neighborhood; she'd never really thought about where her professors went in the summers.

"Which is where?" she couldn't stop herself asking.

"Manchester," Snape said quellingly, and Hermione knew she'd get nothing further out of him about his home. Inwardly, though, she was already fitting this into her understanding of the man. Manchester!

"Besides," he added grudgingly, "I only went the once. A. . . A friend invited me along with her family. I was very young. I'd hardly know what to do, or which film to see, now."

Hermione knew she shouldn't ask, he'd already told her far more than she would ever have expected. But her mouth seemed to have other ideas. "Was it-did you go with Harry's mum, then?"

Immediately, Snape's expression hardened. "What?" he demanded.

"I saw her-I saw her in one of Harry's memories," Hermione said. "And, well, she looked a lot like that girl I saw in yours. . ."

Snape closed his eyes, looking exhausted. "Yes," he bit out. "We were friends. Long ago."

Hermione remembered the desperate, humiliated way he'd screamed at her after Sirius let him down, his robe still half hiked-up in the back. "Before you called her a Mudblood?" she asked.

Snape was on his feet in an instant, his face twisted with fury. "Good _gods,_ you have no idea when to stop, do you girl?" he demanded. He slammed his fist against the desktop; parchment jumped and skittered, the forks clattered against their plates, his inkwell tottered but did not spill.

Hermione had to fight her instincts, which were screaming at her to get out. Snape's eyes were positively blazing, and magic crackled in the air around him. Her heart pattered frantically in her throat.

"Sir—" she whispered.

"Shut _up."_ Snape was breathing raggedly; he ran a hand through his hair.

_Listen to him,_ Hermione's senses told her, but she ignored them.

"Please—I didn't mean anything," she said instead. "It's only that I've been called that word more times than I can count since I found out I was a witch, and it was completely obvious that you didn't really mean it. That you were just. . ." _Humiliated. Lashing out._

She subsided, knowing that she'd already gone too far.

Snape abruptly fell back bonelessly into his chair. The buzz of barely-restrained magic left the air as suddenly as it had appeared; Hermione felt woozy, as though the air was too thin to breathe.

"Obvious," he muttered, and clasped his hands together, but not before Hermione saw how badly they were trembling.

. . . . .

Severus steered clear of Miss Granger for several days, though his eyes sought her in the halls, during meals, in his class. She was maddening, presumptuous. A strange, baffling girl.

The sight of his own reflection one morning in the mirror above his bathroom sink made him inexplicably angry. Never appealing, his face was so drawn and deeply lined that he looked haggard, old, his eyes sunken. He stared at his image for a long moment before the _fucking_ mirror said, "Looking a bit worse for wear, lovey. Perhaps a glamour would help. . . ?"

It was all Severus could do not to aim his wand at the bloody thing and shatter it; with a snarl, he hurled the towel he'd been using to dry his hands at it, instead, and strode from the room, relishing every jarring step as his boots hit the stone floors.

_Disgusting,_ he thought grimly, nodding automatically at several of his Slytherins as they hurried past him toward the Great Hall. A slimy man. An _old_ man, who felt as old as he looked, even if biologically, in terms of wizarding life spans, he had not even breached middle age.

As he neared the Great Hall, Severus was pulled roughly from his thoughts by the sight of Poppy Pomfrey scurrying past, a napkin from breakfast still tucked into her collar. "Oh, Severus!" she cried. "Good—Horace was looking for you. He's in his office, I think; he needs a second opinion."

She made to continue down the corridor, but Severus forestalled her. "Poppy—what are you blathering about?"

"Horace needs you!" she said. "Severus, I must go—"

"Needs me for _what?"_ he ground out from between gritted teeth. "I have not eaten yet, so if it something that can wait—"

"You haven't heard?" she exclaimed, then glanced around at the students who were watching them curiously as they passed, and lowered her voice. "Ronald Weasley has been poisoned," she whispered. "It was some mead Horace gave him. Thank goodness Harry Potter was there, he had the presence of mind to give the boy a bezoar, but I must go, now, and examine him, he's still not out of the woods, and you must help Horace analyze the mead." Poppy paused, biting her lip. "Apparently, Horace was planning on gifting the mead to Albus. . . Really, Severus, go now, the poor man's too shaken to be useful right now."

_Albus._

"What the bloody hell was Horace doing giving mead to student before breakfast?" Severus asked inanely. His frock coat felt suddenly far too binding; he felt beads of perspiration popping out on his forehead.

Poppy looked at him, concerned. "You don't look well, yourself," she said. "Once you're through, come by the infirmary, and perhaps you should go in to breakfast first and take a scone—"

"I'm fine," he muttered. She looked rather dubious, but nodded and turned to go; Severus turned as well, intending to go straight to Horace's office, breakfast forgotten.

As he passed the entrance to the Great Hall, he happened to glimpse Hermione Granger making her way toward the Gryffindor table. She was holding an open book in front of her, and seemed to be navigating the walkways between the benches by memory. There was nothing whatsoever about her manner to indicate that she'd heard about Weasley.

_Fuck._

. . . . .

Hermione had nearly reached the Gryffindor table when someone called her name.

"Hermione! Hey, wait up!"

She stopped short and closed her eyes briefly, trying to hold back a groan. She'd managed to avoid Cormac McLaggen ever since their disastrous date at Slughorn's party. Evening lessons with Harry did have their uses after all, it seemed, as did McLaggen's ridiculous Quidditch workout routine, which kept him away from the common room and Great Hall quite a lot of the time. But now he was here, and there were dozens of witnesses, some of them watching with interest; she couldn't pretend not to have heard him. She turned reluctantly as he jogged up, skidding to a halt beside her.

"Hi, Cormac."

He ran a beefy hand through his hair. "I've been wanting to talk to you for ages," he said. "Seems like I haven't seen you since Ol' Sluggy's party." He stepped a little closer. "Actually, I wish I'd gotten to spend more time with you then."

Hermione sighed, and closed her book, tucking it under her arm. "Oh, yeah—about that—"

But Cormac was still talking. "You completely disappeared, and I was looking for you for awhile, but then I got caught up talking to one of the Wimbourne Wasps' scouts, and, well." He grinned cockily. "Said they wouldn't mind seeing my stuff once I'm out of school."

Hermione glanced over her shoulder, feeling as though her brain was growing soft with boredom. "That's great," she said weakly. "But I—"

"Of course, that means a lot more practicing this year," he went on, oblivious. "But that doesn't mean I can't spare some time for you. In fact," he said, leering, "I could probably squeeze in a little _special_ time after classes, if you know what I—"

"An invitation which I am certain Miss Granger would dearly love to accept," a cold voice said from behind her. "But I am afraid I must interrupt your little assignation."

"Professor Snape," Cormac said, covering his surprise with a sycophantic smile. "Good morning, sir."

Hermione whirled to look at Snape; he was looking at McLaggen as if the younger man were one of his pickled specimens gone rancid. Then he flicked his eyes in her direction, and said, "A word, Miss Granger."

Both grateful and bewildered, Hermione cast Cormac a brief, backward glance, feeling rather satisfied to note his irritated expression. She hurried after Snape, who was making his way into the entrance hall and down a nearby corridor.

He stopped in an alcove and faced her, arms crossed, face inscrutable. "I have some news," he said. "Normally I would not have torn you away from your paramour, but as this involves your _other_ paramour—"

Hermione gaped at him. "My _what?"_

His lips twisted unpleasantly, and he raised one eloquent eyebrow in response.

"Cormac McLaggen is not my anything," she said firmly.

"Mmm. Perhaps you ought to tell him that. Or stop indulging in trysts whilst in public."

"Trysts?" Hermione asked sharply, recalling the wet, messy snog McLaggen had hit her with during Slughorn's party. "You think I _wanted_ to-" She cut herself off abruptly, face flaming. "Not that it's any of your business, but I should like to think you know me better than that."

Snape's expression grew colder. "I assure you, Miss Granger, I am uninterested in students' affairs so long as they are conducted discreetly."

She gave a short nod, willing the heat in her cheeks to dissipate. "Noted, sir," she muttered.

Then his earlier comment caught up with her. "My other. . . What do you mean, my 'other paramour?'" she asked.

Her pressed his lips together, then said, "It seems Mr. Weasley has had an. . . accident. He is in the hospital wing."

Hermione's heart stopped. "What sort of accident?" she whispered.

Snape hesitated. "He. . . He has been poisoned." Ignoring her gasp, he added, "I was only just told. I do not know all the particulars, though it seems Mr. Potter was rather helpful with a bezoar." This stated rather sourly, before his voice gentled and he said quietly, "I thought you would wish to know."

"I—yes," Hermione said dazedly. All thought of hating Ron had disappeared; all she could think of now was his wide smile and wonderful laugh and awkward, ambling gait, and that stupid habit of saying exactly the wrong thing. Her breath stuttered; her whole body was shaking. "Thank you. I must. . . I have to go see him—"

"Of course," Snape said, his dark eyes fathomless, and she turned, almost tripping over her own feet, and raced down the hall toward the infirmary.


	15. Rough new prizes

_Disclaimer: Not mine, as usual. Also as usual: Any paragraphs followed by a "++" contain dialogue that comes from HBP._

. . . . .

Dumbledore's, "What have you learned?" greeted Severus when he entered the headmaster's office, his sternum still warm where his pendant had grown hot several minutes earlier. He checked briefly in the doorway when he didn't immediately see the older wizard anywhere in evidence; then Fawkes' cooing cry drew his attention to the staircase hidden behind one of Dumbledore's many bookshelves, which led to his private quarters. The door was ajar, and light spilled down from the living space above, making the steps glow cheerfully, which did nothing to improve Severus's mood.

"I've learned that Ronald Weasley is a gluttonous ass, that Horace thinks nothing of getting students drunk early on a Saturday morning, and that we may need Argus to start waving his Secrecy Sensor over the teachers as well as the students," he said as he ascended the stairs.

He stopped dead upon entering Dumbledore's sitting room, met there by the furious glares of the members of the Order of the Phoenix. Molly, in particular, looked ready to hex him.

Albus shot him an amused glance from his place beside the fireplace. "I believe you've left out learning that Harry can be quick-thinking with a bezoar."

Severus grimaced and glanced around the room. Moody had his wooden leg resting on the seat of the only available chair, and did not seem inclined to move it, staring stonily at Severus with his one good eye. Severus felt the prickling heat of humiliation wash over him as no one, not even Albus, said anything. Well, he'd be damned if he lowered himself to ask the bastard to move.

Tight-lipped, he began to cross the room, intending to lean against the wall, when a movement caught his eyes. Miss Granger, on the settee with the Metamorphmagus, was gesturing for the other witch to move over nearer the armrest, while she herself scooted toward the center of the seat. With a subtle tip of her head, she indicated that Severus should sit beside her.

He froze, staring at her for a long moment until she raised her eyebrows at him, and he realized the entire bloody Order was watching. With a scowl, he strode to the settee and sat, arms crossed over his chest, looking straight ahead. He could feel the warmth of her along his bicep and against his thigh, even through the layers of clothing between them.

Albus, of course, had marked the entire exchange. His eyes resting heavily on his Defense teacher, he asked, "What of the mead?"

Severus returned the older wizard's gaze with his blandest stare. "It's poisoned."

"Severus." There was nothing benign about Dumbledore's tone. Severus pinched the bridge of his nose.

"There was little to discover," he ground out. "The poison was-is-a particularly nasty one. If Potter had been even seconds later . . ."

Beside him, he heard Miss Granger swallow hard, and gritted his teeth.

Dumbledore sighed. "No way of knowing, I suppose, whether the poison was in the mead when Rosmerta gave it to Horace, or added once he'd reached the school with it?"

"None."

"That's bollocks," Moody growled, thunking his wooden leg on the floor. One of the twins muttered something under his breath.

Arthur spoke up for the first time, his voice hoarse. "Alastor, Severus has spent all day working on this. We owe him our thanks." Beside him, Molly's mouth tightened, but she didn't say anything.

Severus pressed his own lips together, eyes darting from one face to another. A few looked mutinous, the others, like Minerva and, Merlin help him, Lupin, merely exasperated. He did not turn to look at the girl next to him, though from the corner of his eye, he could see her fingers clenching.

Mundungus Fletcher, who, more often than not, managed to be "unavoidably detained" during meetings, leaned forward, his expression avaricious.

"What sort of poison was it?" Fletcher asked. "Where could they have got it?"

Severus felt anger, hot and wonderfully distracting, brewing like a potion in his chest. "The sort that's fatal, you sneak, and if you think for a _moment_ that I would give you information that could lead to you peddling _poisons_ to turn a Galleon-"

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Unfortunately, we need to know the specifics, Severus. How else are we to determine who would have access such a potion?" He raised one fuzzy white eyebrow meaningfully.

Severus frowned, cutting a glare in Fletcher's direction. "It is. . . tolerably easy to get ahold of, I believe. The apothecary in Knockturn Alley likely stocks it in the back, and it remains potent for several months after it's brewed." He turned back to Albus, stared at him hard. "Anyone-including a student, if they'd the Galleons-could have procured it."

Kingsley spoke up for the first time since Severus had entered the room. "Albus, you know the Ministry is sending Aurors to Hogsmeade. Perhaps I could allocate some to Hogwarts—"

"No." Dumbledore shook his head firmly. "I won't have the Ministry interfering with the school if I can help it. But Hogwarts does, clearly, need more protection. Particularly as I find myself traveling frequently of late." He tapped his teeth with one fingernail. "But perhaps," he said, "some of _you_ could patrol occasionally? Obviously, Severus and Minerva already do, as does the rest of my staff, but-"

"I could." Nymphadora Tonks shrugged. "I'll be in Hogsmeade anyway a lot of the time-I'm one of the ones assigned there. We could work something out so I patrol here on my off days, or evenings or whatever."

Several other Order members chimed in, and for a while the room was abuzz as they worked out patrolling schedules and discussed updates to the wards. Of all of them, only Miss Granger and Severus, himself, remained quiet. He chanced a sideways glance at the girl; she was staring pensively at her hands, her face pale and tired. In the brightness of Albus's sitting room, he could see that her eyes were red-rimmed, her mad hair frizzily tangled. He grimaced; she'd likely spent the entire day by the Weasley boy's bed in the infirmary. Something in his chest began to ache, and he barely controlled the impulse to rub at it with his palm.

Miss Granger chose that moment to turn her head slightly and look at him. Caught staring, Severus clenched his hands into fists, willing away the rush of blood to his face. Something flickered in her eyes, and her mouth tilted in a very small, tired smile; and then she turned away from him, looking for all the world as though the conversation around them was absorbing her complete attention, even though she, as a student, could not take part in the patrols.

. . . . .

The meeting was shorter than the last had been, and Hermione was surprised when Dumbledore proclaimed their business to be concluded. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley returned to the hospital wing to check on Ron before Flooing home to the Burrow, but most of the other Order members remained chatting in Dumbeldore's cluttered sitting room, except for Tonks, listless to Hermione's left, and Snape, ramrod-straight and scowling into the fireplace, on her right. Hermione had spent the day by Ron's bedside, willing him to wake up. Holding herself back by clutching at the seat of her chair with both hands from taking him by the shoulders and shaking him so hard he'd _have_ to wake up. Wanting, by turns, to rage at him for being so gluttonous as to eat those chocolates-_before breakfast_- and to apologize for all those months of not speaking to him. Wanting to beg him to be all right. She hadn't been able to eat any of the sandwiches Mrs. Weasley requested from the kitchen, her stomach too full of guilty knots to leave room for anything else, and now she felt limp and wrung-out, her brain a useless mush.

Snape shifted slightly, crossing one leg over the other knee, and Hermione glanced at him from under her lashes. He'd been staring straight ahead since their eyes met twenty or so minutes earlier, but now he turned his head very slowly to look at her, raising one eyebrow. He opened his mouth as though intending to say something, but closed it again immediately when Professor McGonagall appeared in front of them.

"Miss Granger," she said, her own brows raised as she took in the unlikely group before her, "perhaps you should return to your dormitory. It is well after curfew, after all."

Then McGonagall was forced to step back as Snape stood suddenly, stalking away without speaking a word to any of them; Hermione turned and watched as he approached Dumbledore before leaving the headmaster's quarters entirely, his boots loud on the stone steps leading to the office below. Her right side, where she'd been able to feel the heat from his body throughout the meeting, felt suddenly cold.

When she turned back to her Head of House, McGonagall wore an expression of pure annoyance. "By Merlin, if he isn't the most infuriating man. . ." As though remembering herself, she straightened her spectacles, and said, "Yes, Miss Granger. . . I doubt you will be stopped, but if Mr. Filch sees you, send him to me. I need to speak with Professor Dumbledore about these new patrolling schedules."

Her tone was brisk, a teacher-to-pupil directive, and Hermione automatically nodded and stood, murmuring good-night to an unresponsive Tonks, and left the sitting room. She hurried through Dumbledore's office, feeling uncomfortable there alone with all the portraits staring at her, and it wasn't until she had stepped off the moving staircase that resentment suddenly welled up. Turning as the door to the office shut behind her, Hermione glared at the stone gargoyle.

"Sending me to bed like I'm a child," she muttered under her breath. She might be a legal adult in the Wizarding world, and a member of the Order, but as long as she remained a student, that was how her professors, past and present, would likely always see her. That same student status prevented her from taking part in the fight in any meaningful way; that much had been evident during both meetings she'd attended.

She resisted the urge to kick the gargoyle's stone base like she child she wasn't.

Instead, Hermione turned and began to walk, hoping the common room would be deserted and her roommates still asleep. She didn't feel up to coming up with an explanation for being out so late after curfew. The corridor was chilly and, as she moved farther away from the Headmaster's office, nearly dark; a wordless _Lumos_, and she realized there was someone, or something, moving through the darkness ahead of her with a slow, trudging step. Hermione stopped, raising her wand slightly so the light shone farther down the hall, and felt weak with relief when she recognized Snape's form, moving with unaccustomed slowness.

"Professor!" she said, increasing her own pace, her voice pitched just high enough for him to hear. Snape turned, his face still in shadows, and waited for her to approach.

Conscious that she had no good reason to have stopped him, Hermione nevertheless tried to smile, coming to a halt close enough that she could see the glitter of his eyes in the light of her wand. It seemed, she thought, that she was always chasing after him this year, and more often than not, like now, for no particular purpose except to be around him.

"Ah-I wanted to thank you again for telling me about Ron," she said. Had it really only been this morning? The day had been interminable, sitting, hollow and cold, beside Ron's bed.

Snape shook his head. "No need," he muttered.

Hermione nodded, flushing. "Right-sorry. I just saw you and. . ." She trailed off, feeling muzzy-headed and aware she could start rambling at any minute. "Goodnight, then."

She turned to go, but was forestalled by Snape's long fingers on her upper arm. She looked at him questioningly; in the darkness of the corridor, it was hard to read his expression. He jerked his hand back as soon as she turned her head.

"Come to my office tomorrow," he said, folding his arms across his chest. Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it again. She faced him fully, trying to see his face more clearly through the shadows.

"Unless you cannot bring yourself to leave Mr. Weasley's bedside," he added.

Hermione _had_ planned to spend Sunday in the hospital wing, whether Ron had woken up or not-whether Lavender liked it or not-but she shrugged, smiling a little, aware that Snape rarely issued invitations and intrigued as to why he was, now. "What time?"

"Any time after lunch," he said, and began to turn away, his voice tinged with something she couldn't quite place. "I've some books that might be of interest to you, and it is far too late to fetch them tonight."

He blended in with the darkness completely, and she was left smiling rather foolishly at nothing.

. . . . .

Severus took lunch in his chambers the next day, and very nearly did not leave them for his office when he was finished eating. A few hours' troubled sleep had left him feeling more edgy than rested, and in the light of day, his impulsive invitation to Miss Granger seemed foolish, the pathetic grasping for companionship of a lonely man. As a teacher, he was used to ordering his students to be somewhere-generally detention-and being obeyed. He was _not_ accustomed to thinking about his students, except, occasionally, his Slytherins, outside of class, and certainly not to inviting, rather than demanding, their presence on his days off. An old, impotent, adolescent fear surged, that the girl would simply not show up.

He drummed his fingers on the sides of his armchair, glaring at a small blue book on the coffee table. Finally, an hour after he'd finished lunch, Severus stood, snatched the book up, and muttered, "Sod it."

There was a small figure standing outside his classroom, dressed in jeans and a knobbly jumper that was clearly of Weasley origin, shifting from one foot to the other uncertainly. Severus slowed his pace as he approached, the tightness in his chest dissipating, and watched with interest as Miss Granger flipped her wrist over, checking her watch and frowning. Then, apparently hearing his footsteps, she turned-and an eager smile overtook her face.

"Professor!" she said. "I was worried I'd misunderstood you last night-you did say anytime after lunch?"

"Mmm." Severus raised his wand and cancelled the wards on the classroom door, feeling in control once more. _She_ had been waiting for _him_. "I did," he said, affecting a bored tone, and gestured that she follow him into the room, adding in explanation, "I'm afraid I was. . . engrossed in some reading."

"I know what that's like," she said, with a shrug and another smile. She clasped her hands behind her back and waited while Severus unwarded his office, then took the seat across his desk when he waved a hand at it. Severus hesitated only a moment, then pulled the slim book from a pocket of his robes and handed it to her.

"Here," he said, feeling awkward. To cover, he strode briskly to the other side of his desk and sat down, glaring down his nose at her, though she seemed oblivious, her hair falling forward as she bent over the text, carefully opening it.

" 'Wendell Disappears,' " she read aloud, frowning, then flipped a few pages forward to a colorful, moving illustration of a small boy. On the left-hand page, he was clearly twisting away, while on the right-hand page, he reappeared in an obviously different setting.

Miss Granger looked at Severus quizzically. "Is this. . .?"

"It is a children's book," Severus said gruffly, feeling more foolish by the second. "Written by a Muggle-born wizard who married a Muggle and sired a Squib. The child-_Wendell_-was raised in the Muggle world, despite having a magical father. Apparently this was said father's attempt to explain to his son how he kept popping in and out of existence, as well as to. . ." He plucked the book from her hands and turned it to the dedication page, affecting a sneering tone. " '. . . Give Wendell a sense of his heritage, of what it means to be a wizard, even if only in his imagination.' "

He shut the book with a snap, and handed it back to her. "Seems rather cruel, showing the boy what might have been, but in any event, he explains the process of Apparition quite succinctly, and the illustrations move slowly enough that they are much easier to analyze than actual people performing Apparition themselves."

Miss Granger's mouth quirked. "I've never read any wizarding children's books." She looked up at him. "Thank you."

Severus waved a hand impatiently. The wretched book, long forgotten and left neglected on a shelf in his sitting room, had seemed to leap out at him several evenings prior, and try as he might, he could not get rid of the thought that it might be just the thing to help Miss Granger get over her fear of Apparating. Now, with the book in her hands, her fingers flipping through the pages, that damn illustration Apparating over and over and over again, he felt ridiculous.

From a pile of library books on the corner of his desk, he took another text, much heavier than the slim volume Miss Granger held, and thrust it toward her. "If that does not prove useful, this might," he said.

Surprised, the girl read the title, and Severus felt something brighten inside him when her face lit up. "Oooh-_Modern Mobility!_ I knew this was in the Restricted Section, but I never had a good reason to check it out. Madam Pince looked at me like I was mad when I requested it, said the Ministry's lessons were enough for everyone else so they would have to be for me, too." She ran her fingers lovingly over the pebbled leather binding. "Is it true that Apparition used to be considered a Dark Art?"

"I suppose you shall have to read and find out. I, thankfully, am not required to teach today."

She laughed. "Fair enough." Then she turned her attention to the two books in her lap, apparently forgetting him entirely.

Severus stared at her for a moment. He had not intended for her to read the bloody things in his office. He opened his mouth to demand she leave-and then stopped. It was rare enough that he actually not mind another person's company; even more so for said person to not mind his. Retreating behind his desk, he watched her suspiciously for a moment, his neck and shoulders tense. After several minutes, when she had done nothing more than turn some pages, he cautiously reached for another book from his stack and opened it.

. . . . .

The sound of a throat being cleared jarred Hermione from her reading. Startled, she glanced up to find Snape seated across his desk from her. The room, she realized, was significantly dimmer than it had been when she arrived, no light showing around the curtains drawn over its only window. Snape waved his wand, and several torches flared to life.

"I take it you found the books suitably engrossing?" he asked, lifting one sardonic eyebrow.

Hermione chuckled, stretching her arms over her head. "Very," she said dryly, then frowned at her watch. "What time is it, anyway?" Her eyes widened when she saw that it was more than an hour past dinner; her stomach gave a horrifying rumble.

Snape let out a laugh, the same bass, beautiful sound she'd first heard in that very office after the first Order meeting. "Hungry, Miss Granger?" he asked.

She made a face, fighting a blush. "Obviously. Aren't you?"

Snape leaned back in his chair. "Perhaps." He pursed his lips, eyes narrowed, as though contemplating something troubling, then said abruptly, "I could, I suppose, order dinner from the kitchens. Unless your desire to dine with me was a one-off?"

"I-no, it wasn't," Hermione stuttered, her mouth stretching in spite of her attempts to stop it in a wide smile.

Snape stared at her for a moment, then nodded curtly and rose to his feet, moving only a few steps before he took some Floo powder from its pot on the mantle and called out, "Hogwarts kitchens!"

It was an incongruous sight, Hermione thought, Severus Snape squatting on the hearth with his head in a fireplace. So undignified. She smiled faintly to herself, then glanced at her watch again, feeling vaguely guilty. She'd planned to return to the hospital wing, and wasn't entirely sure how the day had gotten so completely away from her. Normally, if she tried to delve into her reading anywhere where Ron and Harry might find her, she was inevitably interrupted by their good-natured grumbling that she preferred books to their company. What they didn't understand was that it was possible to get lost in a book while, at the same time, enjoying the company of someone else. She looked at Snape again from under her lashes; while she hadn't been aware of the time that was passing, she was still aware of her professor across the desk from her, of the way he gradually relaxed into his chair, the small sounds he made when he agreed with something the author of his book said, the occasional snort of disgust when he didn't. It was. . . quite companionable, really.

When Snape pulled his head out of the fireplace, he said, "I hope you haven't got any fatal allergies to shellfish."

Hermione blinked. "No."

He nodded and returned to his chair, steepling his fingers and regarding her over them. "And how did you find your reading?"

She ran her finger along the edge of the larger book. "The history of Apparition is fascinating," she said slowly. "But you were right-the children's book explains the process in a way Professor Tofty hasn't been able to." She pulled a face. "The three D's-it's such an imprecise explanation. I don't understand why he can't just tell us exactly what is happening with our magic and our bodies when we Apparate. I bet there'd be fewer splinching accidents."

Snape smirked. "Perhaps," he said. "If your dunderheaded classmates had the patience to sit through such lectures without tuning them out. And, if you recall, this is a Ministry-run class-and any time the Ministry can boil something complex down to a few easy-to-remember words, it will, regardless of what is lost in the process."

The pop of the house-elf delivering their meal interrupted their conversation. The little creature bowed in Snape's direction, casting Hermione a mistrustful look with-his? her?-enormous eyes. Hermione frowned at her lap.

"Is Professor Snape wanting anything else from Tizzy?"

"No," Snape said. "You may go." The elf disappeared, and Snape heaved himself out of his seat and began serving himself a bowl from a steaming tureen of seafood stew, then tore the heel off a loaf of crusty bread.

"Well? Are you waiting for a written invitation?" he asked, turning to pour himself a goblet from the decanter of wine Tizzy had brought with the food.

Hermione stood and served herself some food. She eyed the wine, realizing the elf hadn't brought anything else, and looked questioningly at Snape, wondering if he'd tell her to ask the kitchens for something more appropriate. He gave the decanter a sour look and said irritably, "Have some, then, you're of age, after all, and it seems my. . . colleague. . . has no compunction about providing spirits to his students."

His expression seemed to add, _So anyone who disapproves can go hang,_ though he merely picked up his own goblet and took a sip, watching her closely as though to ensure she did not take too much of the drink.

For several minutes after Hermione sat down, the only noises in the office were the clink of spoons against bowls as both she and Snape ate. Then he sat back in his chair; she could feel his eyes on her, and for a moment, was thrown back several months to when she could have fully expected to be shouted from the room for her impertinence in sitting so familiarly in his office. She looked up at him, feeling suddenly odd, but he quirked one side of his mouth in an almost-smile.

She set her own spoon down and smiled back. "Thank you," she said again. When Snape raised an eyebrow, she added, "For letting me read these books. It was really thoughtful."

He ducked his head, but not before Hermione saw the slight stain of color that bloomed over his sallow cheeks. "Potter is one of the youngest in your year," he said. "He won't be able to take the test this term. It seemed imprudent to allow his best chance of Side-Along-Apparition to work herself into a fit of nerves when she is perfectly capable of-"

Tizzy the house-elf chose that moment to pop into the room. "Is Professor Snape finished?"

"Yes," Snape said, waving a hand, and the elf did something to make the bowls, spoons, soup tureen, and wine glasses vanish, before bowing and popping away again.

Hermione bit her lip to keep from grinning. "You think I'm perfectly capable?" she asked, as her professor rubbed the bridge of his nose.

Snape raised his eyes to hers. "Quite. As I hope your reading this afternoon has shown you, your trouble with broom flight has nothing to do with how accomplished you will be at Apparition. Apparition requires attention to detail, concentration, control over one's magic-all of which are qualities you possess. Flying, on the other hand, requires physical dexterity, balance, and" -his lips shifted subtly upward again- "the ability to relinquish some control over one's circumstances to something other than oneself."

Hermione shifted in her chair, trying not to embarrass him by letting her pleasure show too clearly. "If having control issues is such a problem if I want to fly well, how are _you_ so good at it?" she asked.

Only when Snape's mask fell suddenly into place did she realize how her question must have sounded.

"I didn't-I was teasing, really," she stammered, conscious that not so long ago, to admit to teasing Snape would have been akin to signing up for a month of detentions disemboweling toads.

Snape gave a sort of half-shrug, for him an oddly uncoordinated movement. "I have long since relinquished control over my life," he said, staring at his hands where they rested on the desktop. Then he leaned his head back, eyes closed, and muttered, "Flying, at least, has some compensations."

Hermione swallowed, looking at the exposed line of his jaw, the surprising darkness of his eyelashes against his thin cheeks, and wondered when she had stopped seeing him merely as Professor Snape, as nasty and unapproachable a git as she'd ever had the displeasure of meeting, and starting seeing him as. . . this Snape. Who was, admittedly, still sometimes a bit nasty, but who had a past, a childhood with a mother and father. Who'd once had a crush on a girl named Lily, and who loved to fly, and who was, unbelievably enough, a pleasure to talk to. Who, for some unfathomable reason, seemed to have accepted her as a presence in his life.

Something she'd been thinking about for weeks burbled to the tip of Hermione's tongue. "I want to charm our pendants," she blurted.

Snape opened his eyes. "What did you say?"

Hermione groaned inwardly. She knew she ought to have tried to bring him around to the idea slowly. She'd been agonizing over how to ask him, trying to gauge how angry he would be, and now, before she knew it, the words were out and she couldn't take them back, her intentions declared bluntly like. . . Well, like a Gryffindor.

"I think I've figured out how Professor Dumbledore charmed the Order's pendants," she said before she lost her nerve. Snape's expression turned thunderous, and she said quickly, "I did some research on Undetectable Extension Charms and practiced on a handbag I got for Christmas. It was trickier to figure out varying the Protean Charm so that our necklaces could be both receivers and senders of messages, separately from the others, since right now everyone's pendants are merely receptors for Professor Dumbledore's-"

"Absolutely not," Snape said flatly.

Hermione dug her fingernails into her palms. "Why?"

"Let me see if I understand you correctly," he said. "You are proposing that you, the newest and least experienced member of the Order, and I, a spy distrusted by everyone-"

_"Not_ everyone," Hermione interrupted fiercely, but Snape continued as though she hadn't spoken.

"-that we concoct a means of communication between the two of us, _behind the head of the Order's back-"_

"Not concoct, I just figured out what Prof-"

"Silence!" Snape's command, delivered in a tone Hermione hadn't heard directed at her outside class in a very long time, clogged her throat and made her eyes prickle with tears she refused to shed. She clenched her jaw and glared at him.

"I cannot fathom," he said, his own teeth clenched, "why you imagine that would be. . ." He paused, closing his eyes, then opened them and tried again. "What could you possibly hope to gain from such a stunt?"

"It wouldn't be a stunt," Hermione protested, stung. "It would be. . ." She bit her lip, searching for right word. ". . . necessary."

"Necessary," he repeated incredulously. "Necessary for _what?"_

"For your survival!" she half-shrieked, standing, balling her hands into fists at her sides. She could feel magic thrumming across her shoulders, her arms, her scalp, making her hair crackle. Unlike when she'd asked him about Lily Potter, however, this time, the uncontrolled magic was hers.

"For my-you stupid, arrogant girl, what the bloody hell do you think _you_ can do to ensure my survival?"

"I don't know!" she said, and put her palms flat on his desktop, leaning across it until they were face-to-face, and she could smell his breath and see the panic lying just behind the fury in his eyes. "I'm not as arrogant as you seem to think; I don't have any illusions about being able to-I don't know. Nab you from You-Know-Who's clutches if he decides to kill you." Snape flinched slightly, his mouth tightening, but he didn't take his eyes off hers.

"I just. . ." Hermione swallowed. "I really hate the thought of you being there, with him, with all of them. I mean, yes, it would be wonderful if somehow the Order could be alerted to these awful things that are happening before they happen but. . ." She decided to, as her father liked to say, lay her cards on the table. "To be honest, I'm not convinced they would do anything. Or rather, I'm not convinced Professor Dumbledore would let them."

This, she was afraid, was going too far. Whatever it was between Snape and Dumbledore, it didn't seem to allow room for Snape, who normally criticized everything, to disparage the headmaster's decisions.

Snape's eyes burned with something she couldn't decipher, and he didn't respond, just stared at her. Hermione hesitated, then added quietly, "I really, really wish all our pendants worked both ways, but I'm mostly worried about you. The rest of us have. . ." Oh, God, there was no way to tactfully say she was worried about him because he had no friends, and thus fewer people in the Order who were bothered about his welfare. ". . . More of a safety net," she finally said lamely, looking down at the desktop.

"I see." Snape kept his voice expressionless, but when her eyes darted back to his face, he looked somehow both angry and puzzled, his brows drawn together, his eyes searching her face. Finally, he said, "I must say, Miss Granger, that was the least convincing argument I've heard you give in all the years I've taught you. You want me to go behind the headmaster's back, not because you think yourself really capable of helping me if I needed it but so that you will feel you are doing something?"

"That's not what I said!" Hermione said, glaring at him. "I don't want anything bad to happen—"

"You're speaking like a child," Snape said coldly, but Hermione watched as he swallowed convulsively.

"I care what happens to you," she said evenly. "Very much. And if you are ever in trouble and I could help, or if I could alert other Order members. . . Obviously, there's a chance you wouldn't be able to send a message, or I won't be able to respond. It might not do any good. But it definitely won't if you don't at least give it a chance."

"I will not go behind the headmaster's back for the sake of your conscience, girl," he snarled.

"The headmaster isn't going to be alive much longer," she snapped. "What then?"

Before Snape could answer, the Floo flared suddenly to life, Dumbledore's head appearing in the swirling green flames.

"Severus, I was hoping for a-" The old wizard stopped talking, staring at Hermione, and her heart began hammering madly. Had Dumbledore heard them? How in the world. . .? She felt cold and hot at once, terrified and frustrated. Snape's eyes flicked up to meet hers briefly; she held his gaze, feeling breathless.

"What is it, Headmaster?" Snape's voice was perfectly even, and he turned to give the fireplace his full attention.

Dumbledore stepped through the fireplace and onto the hearth, pausing only to vanish the ash he brought with him. "I need a word with you," he said, in a tone that brooked no refusal. "Alone. Miss Granger, I'm sure, would like to visit Mr. Weasley again before curfew."

Taking the hint, Hermione stood, nearly stumbling over the chair legs. "Yes, sir," she said, then looked at Snape. "Professor-thank you, again. I. . ." She trailed off, uncertain how to find the words, especially with Dumbledore watching, to express the odd, warm feeling she'd gotten when he handed her that old, blue book. When she knew he'd been thinking, however fleetingly, about her.

Looking between the two men, Snape's expression impassive and his facial muscles tense, Dumbledore's fluffy brows nearly meeting over the bridge of his nose, she suddenly remembered what Hagrid had let slip in the infirmary the day before, about Snape and Dumbledore arguing about something on the grounds. At the time, she'd been too filled with remorse and fear for Ron to think much about anything else, but now she wondered just what had passed between them.

"May I take the history book with me?" she asked, finally. "I finished the other one, but I still have a few chapters left in _Modern Mo-"_

"Yes, take it," Snape interrupted. "But ensure that it is returned to the library before tomorrow evening."

"Thank you," Hermione said again, and tried to smile, though it felt unnatural, their argument still ringing in her ears, the question of whether Dumbledore had somehow heard them making it difficult to think about anything else. In any case, Snape gave her a perfectly blank expression in return.

"Good evening, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said.

Hermione nodded at him, and at Snape, then left the office.

. . . . .

Albus waited until the office door was closed and Miss Granger's footsteps in the classroom outside had faded before casting a cushioning charm on the chair she had vacated and settling into it.

"Well, Severus," he said. "What was all that?"

Severus pressed the tips of his fingers against his eye sockets briefly, mentally cursing Dumbledore's uncanny ability to appear at the worst possible times. "The girl has been worried about not being able to Apparate. I happened to have a book in my possession that I thought might be useful to her."

Albus picked up the blue book from the desktop. "Ah, yes," he said, smiling. "I recall this once being quite popular—around the time your mother was a child. This was hers?"

Severus nodded curtly.

The older man's eyes pierced him. "It's rather unlike you to allow something of such personal value to fall into anyone else's hands, much less those of a student." He raised his eyebrows. "And I seriously doubt you checked _Modern Mobility_ out of the Restricted Section for your own edification."

"If you have something to say," Severus ground out, "say it."

"Very well. I thought you were through with giving Miss Granger. . . specialized attention. . . outside class."

Irritated, Severus folded his arms and affected his most imperious tone. "It was you who told me to teach her both to Occlude and to Legilimize. I cannot imagine you thought either of us could escape such an experience entirely unscathed."

"Only you, my boy, would liken a friendship born of mutual understanding and sympathy to a wound received in battle," Albus said, chuckling.

His words sent a jolt of-something-down Severus' spine.

"You are mistaken," he said. "The girl looks to me, as she does to all her teachers, for knowledge. That is all."

Albus trailed the fingers of his blackened hand through the strands of his beard. "I highly doubt that," he said, "though I'll admit I do not know Miss Granger well, myself. However, my instincts tell me that _you_ are the mistaken one in this instance, and," with a modest smile, "my instincts are rarely wrong. Not to mention the fact that I have never seen you give up so much of your personal time for a student before."

"I trust you have had this conversation with Pomona, as well?" Severus interrupted. "I hear Longbottom has taken tea with her. And of course Horace, with his clubs and dinners and parties, to which he only ever invites certain members of the student body. And Minerva? I assume you took her to task-what was it, eight years ago? Ten?-when she became friendly with that Hawthorne girl she helped to become an Animagus."

"I see no problem with students and teachers forming bonds to one another beyond the classroom," Albus said. "But you, my boy, are different. And I think you know that."

"Different," Severus sneered.

"You have an important role to play," Dumbledore said sharply. He looked hard at Severus, his expression visibly softening.

"Unfortunately," he said, "your friendship with Hermione is. . . ill-timed. As things stand now, everyone in the Order-yes, even Alastor-know you as _our_ spy against Voldemort. Once you have killed me, however, they will, of course, think you have betrayed them, and me. Not to mention," he added, an inappropriate twinkle in his eyes, "that they will no doubt wonder where my mind disappeared to, to have trusted you so implicitly."

Severus clenched his jaw. "Yes, I had figured as much out for myself."

"Of course. But you must see that to allow any Order members to have any lingering doubts as to your loyalties. . ." Albus paused, apparently gathering his thoughts, the fingers of his good hand moving to rub at his shoulder. Severus felt his throat close; the curse must be spreading more quickly.

"Hermione Granger seems to be an astute young woman, who has no compunction about questioning the, shall we say, official story."

Dumbledore gave Severus a questioning glance, and Severus gave a short nod.

"True enough," he said tightly. "Which is all the more reason to rethink this travesty of a plan you've concocted! The girl questions everything, Albus-"

"Which is precisely why I am concerned. Having come to know you as I believe she has, I cannot imagine she would easily accept. . . Severus, there can be no question that you are truly loyal to Voldemort once I am gone. Without you, there will be no one within the Death Eaters' ranks to know their plans. The Order needs you-"

"Then why not be honest with them, old man?" Severus bellowed, the last thread of his patience, his composure, snapping. "If it is all about Draco, and about keeping me close to the Dark Lord. . . I do not understand how you expect me to impart information if they all believe me to be a traitor. Not to mention your ludicrous demand that I be the one to tell Potter he must sacrifice himself! You have given no reason that I can understand not to just tell the bloody Order-"

He clamped his lips together over the next thought that tried to voice itself: _Why can't you let me stay?_ He buried his eyes in one hand, and tried to gain control over himself once more. When he finally looked up again, Dumbledore was watching him, regret etched into every line of his face.

"My boy. . ." He hesitated, then said in a firm voice, "You are a resourceful and intelligent man. I've every faith that you will find a way to do what must be done."

Severus pressed his mouth into a thin, hard line.

"How do you think Molly would react if she knew what Harry must do to defeat Voldemort?" Albus asked. "Or Minerva? Sturgis? Remus? Miss Granger? I don't believe _she_ would sit quietly by and allow Harry to do what he must—and valuable time would be wasted, time that she must spend on. . ." He paused delicately, and Severus narrowed his eyes. "Other things. The Order needs you, Severus, to do—"

"What they will not," Severus finished for him, bitterly.

Dumbledore did not smile, but he appeared pleased, nonetheless. "Yes, my boy. _This_ is why I have entrusted these most difficult tasks to you. You are capable of doing what must be done, without allowing. . . shall we say, sentimentality. . . to get in the way."

Severus clenched his hands into fists. "Lily—"

Abruptly, Albus stood, looking as furious as he'd been the night Severus came to him to beg for Lily's life. "You are not the only one who has been forced to put the needs of the many above the desires of someone you love!" His eyes blazing, he whirled about with an energy Severus had not seen him exhibit since the curse began to weaken him, and began to pace the small office. The air fairly pulsed with magic barely held in check. Severus tracked his progress with his eyes, his mind racing.

Finally, Dumbledore returned to his seat, slumping into it as though exhausted. He rested one elbow on the arm of the chair, cradling his cheek in his hand. "It is a terrible choice to make, I know," he said softly, and Severus was breathless with the thought that he looked and sounded impossibly old. "And it is a choice that few are able to bring themselves to make. But you, my boy. . ."

He trailed off, and Severus closed his eyes. Albus did not need to complete that sentence; his words echoed throughout the office as loudly as if they had been shouted. The old wizard knew that he, Severus, would betray Lily's memory. Would betray the Order. Would betray Miss Granger's inexplicable trust in him—and oh, Merlin, Severus thought bitterly, how quickly she would retract her impossible request, if she knew what he was going to do-to Albus, to Potter. _I care what happens to you._ He had no illusions that she cared far more what happened to Potter.

As though reading his thoughts, Albus said suddenly, "There is another reason why the circumstances surrounding my death _must_ remain between the two of us. If anyone knew of the Vow, they would. . . well." He looked troubled.

Again, Severus interrupted him. "They would prefer to see the Vow kill me, rather than me kill you," he said tonelessly. "Even if they did know the extent of. . . that." He gestured at Dumbledore's blackened hand.

Albus looked at him steadily. "Oh, I think there is one person in the Order, at least, who would not be so sanguine about that vow carrying you away. A certain. . . relationship. . . might threaten everything we've worked for, everything we're trying to build out of these most horrific circumstances." He leaned forward; Severus's heart thudded, and, without thinking, he slammed his shields into place. But Albus did not try to probe his mind; after studying his colleague's face for a moment, he sat back and said merely, "You must be careful."

They sat quietly for several moments after that before Severus finally broke the silence. "I don't know if I can do it," he said.

Albus did him the courtesy of not asking what he meant. "I am gratified to hear it," he said seriously, inclining his head. "However-I've no doubt you can, and will, when the time arrives."

Severus closed his eyes.

Finally, Dumbledore clapped his hands together. "Well, I've an early meeting with the Board of Governors tomorrow, so I believe I shall take my leave." He stood and walked to the fireplace, then paused in the act of taking a pinch of Floo powder between his fingers. "Oh—I nearly forgot! Argus told me Peeves has made a mess of the Charms corridor—something to do with Dungbombs and ink that he can't scrub away. I told him I was certain you could send some detentions his way tomorrow." His eyes twinkled over the tops of his spectacles.

"Yes. Fine," Severus muttered.

"Excellent. Good night, my boy." And he was gone.

. . . . .

Hermione watched from across the table as Ron pushed his food around on his plate. Very little seemed to be making it into his mouth.

"What's wrong?" she finally said.

"What d'you mean?" Ron asked, looking self-conscious.

"You've barely eaten anything. Are you okay?"

He shrugged. "Bit nervous about the match," he mumbled, turning red.

Gryffindor was playing Ravenclaw that weekend. Hermione assumed what she hoped was an understanding expression. "I'm sure you'll be brilliant," she said soothingly.

Ron managed a weak smile, and she smiled back. They had somehow managed to avoid the issue of their weeks of enmity by dint of pretending they hadn't happened, though Hermione wondered occasionally whether this was, perhaps, not a healthy precedent to set. But she couldn't bring herself to say anything, too happy to be on good terms with him again, though it seemed she'd traded Ron's enmity for Lavender's, the atmosphere in her dorm room having grown noticeably chillier since Ron's recovery.

She glanced up at the Head Table, feeling a jolt of disappointment when she saw Snape wasn't there. For weeks, Hermione hadn't dared approach him outside of class, part of her honestly worried about what sort of reception she'd get after he flatly rejected her suggestion about their pendants, the other part reluctant to expose him to Dumbledore's scrutiny. The headmaster had looked seriously displeased to see her in Snape's office, his normally genial expression hardened into something like suspicion.

But she missed him. Despite how good it was to have Ron back, she found herself wishing for whatever-it-was she had, or was starting to have, with Snape. For conversation, and quiet companionship, and. . . Well. She looked away from the Head Table, sighing.

The only time she seriously considered seeking her professor out was the afternoon she passed her Apparition test. Though she'd had to temper her elation so Ron wouldn't feel too badly—he'd barely failed—Hermione was thrilled by her success. Harry was right—Apparition was uncomfortable, but it was exhilarating, too. To be able to disappear from one location and reappear somewhere else—the possibilities were incredible. She came away from the test feeling powerful, and she desperately wanted to talk to Snape, to thank him.

Instead, she spent nearly an hour penning a note to tell him she'd successfully passed, wasting several sheets of parchment trying to thank him in a way that wasn't so effusive it would embarrass him. She never received a reply. And then Harry had returned from his bizarre evening—goodness knew she hadn't expected him to head off to bury Hagrid's giant spider when she encouraged him to use the Felix Felicis—and his revelation about what Horcruxes really were had wiped all other thoughts from her mind for a time.

She frowned at the empty space on the bench where Harry usually sat. "I wonder where Harry's got to?" she said, frowning. She'd been late to dinner herself—after a panicked realization that she'd left an important point out of her Arithmancy essay, she'd gone to see Professor Vector before heading down to the Great Hall—and now dinner was nearly over, and he still hadn't shown up.

Ron shrugged. "Maybe he got a glimpse of Malfoy on the Map. You know he checks it every chance he gets."

"Ugh. You're probably right." Hermione sighed, and set her fork down. "Want to head back to the common room?"

. . . . .

Severus was grading papers in his office when he felt it-a sharp, painful tug, like a rope tightening around his chest as the other end was yanked on by some unseen force. He gasped, and his hands reached out instinctively to grasp at the sides of his desk, steadying him; another tug, and he was standing before he could think, stumbling against the desk and knocking over his inkwell. Crimson ink, thick and viscous, spilled over the desktop and scattered parchments; Severus hardly noticed, too focused on the squeezing pressure. He gritted his teeth, feeling sweat break out at his temples. Another yank, and suddenly he was filled with a hot, awful certainty that something was horribly wrong with Draco.

The magical pull drew him out of his office; incapable of considering how odd it might look, he threw open the door of his classroom and dashed madly into the corridor, checking only briefly at the startled looks on the faces of the students there, and to wonder where exactly it was that he should be going, but then he felt the tug again, drawing him down the hallway, and he was off, robes and hair flying behind him and boots pounding on the flagstones.

When Moaning Myrtle came swooping around a corner, screeching, _"Murder! Murder in the bathroom!",_ Severus didn't need the pull of his vow to tell him where Draco was, and all he could think was that whatever had happened, Draco couldn't be dead yet, because he, Severus, was still alive. ++

Before he knew it, he was pushing open the bathroom door with no real recollection of how he'd gotten there beyond the painful pull of magic around his heart and lungs, squeezing at his ribs, making his spine ache if he didn't move fast enough. He allowed it to pull him into the room, and then his boots were sloshing through the water covering the floor, water tinted faintly pink from the blood that was-

For a moment, Severus couldn't move, could only stare, horrified, at Draco lying on the bathroom floor, his chest and face slashed open, pouring blood, the boy's hands scrabbling at his wounds. Water was gushing from broken pipes, and then, half-crouched, Severus spied Potter, his shirt covered in Draco's blood, his eyes wide, his wand still clutched in one fist.

But Severus only had time to spare the boy, the entire room, a quick, disbelieving glance before the magic squeezed him so hard he felt as though he might faint. In an instant, he was beside Draco, smoothing the pale, bloody hair back from his forehead with one hand, drawing his wand with the other. For a moment, he closed his eyes-he knew this curse intimately, knew its effects. _Sectumsempra,_ he thought, and drew the tones and phrases of the counter-curse into his mind, and then the rope was tightening again, and he was singing, the low thrum of his voice and the delicate movements of his wand knitting Draco's torn flesh together again.

When he was finished, Severus realized the rope's grip had eased and disappeared. He knelt for a moment, head bowed, watching the gasping rise and fall of Draco's chest, heedless of the water still pouring from the pipes, soaking into his trousers and up the hem of his robes, adrenaline still pumping so forcefully through his veins that he couldn't even feel relief.

A movement from Potter caught his eye, and he looked up again. The boy stood fully, staring at Draco, his wand-hand trembling. But then he looked at Severus and his expression shifted subtly to one of defiance, and Severus was on his feet, his fury so great that he could barely think for the red haze of it in his brain.

He whipped around and turned back to Draco. "You need the hospital wing," Severus murmured, drawing the younger man to his feet, draping one of Draco's arms across his own shoulders. "There may be a certain amount of scarring, but if you take Dittany immediately we might avoid even that. Come—" ++

Draco's breathing was harsh, his face parchment-white where it wasn't streaked with blood, and he slipped and stumbled in the water that covered the bathroom floor. Severus wrapped an arm tightly around his student's waist, supporting most of his weight, half-dragging him across the room.

When they reached the door, Severus turned and glared at Potter, who was staring stupidly after them. "And you, Potter," he snarled. "You wait here for me." ++

Poppy was taking inventory of her supplies when Severus and Draco burst into the infirmary. Severus hauled Draco onto the nearest bed. "Dittany!" he barked over his shoulder. "He needs Dittany and Blood Replenisher!"

Poppy hurried over. "Who needs-oh, Merlin, what happened?"

"Nasty curse," Severus said. He was breathing heavily, his heart still pounding furiously against his ribs. "I-healed it-but he lost a great deal of blood."

The matron shook her head. "How-"

"Just help him," Severus bit out.

"Right." Poppy stepped forward. Draco's eyes had closed nearly as soon as Severus levered him onto the bed, but they snapped open when Poppy put her hands on his shoulders.

"We need to get this shirt off, young man," she said, then whipped out her wand and carefully began spelling the tattered fabric away, baring Draco's white, hairless torso, the red of his blood horribly vivid in contrast, and Summoning a number of pots and vials from her cupboards. For a moment, Draco looked at Severus, his grey eyes full of something that hurt to look at, it was so familiar, and then Poppy pulled a privacy curtain closed.

Abruptly, Severus found he could hardly feel his limbs. He staggered to a chair and sank into it, pressing his face against his palms. His hands were shaking, and a moment later, the rest of him was, too, his breath coming in gasping bursts. _Sectumsempra-_Oh, dear fucking Merlin, Draco had nearly died. _He_ had nearly died. The shaking intensified until he had to tighten his jaw to keep his teeth from knocking together.

He closed his eyes and forced his Occlumency shields into place, then, aware, with the part of his mind that wasn't gibbering, that he still needed to ensure Draco was tended to and to. . deal. . . with Potter. A moment later, the shaking eased, and Severus opened his eyes, taking several deep breaths.

Poppy pulled aside the curtain and stepped away from Draco's bed. Severus stood, feeling eerily calm now his shields were in place.

"How is he?" he asked.

"He'll be fine-the Dittany's already begun to work, and he's a bit of color back. I gave him a Calming Draught and some Dreamless Sleep." She folded her arms. "Severus, what on earth happened?"

"Potter happened," Severus said grimly.

Poppy huffed indignantly. "Were they dueling?"

"I don't know. And I still need to speak with Potter, so I shall leave Mr. Malfoy in your capable hands." He turned to go, but was forestalled by a small, plump hand on his arm.

"Severus," Poppy said gently. "He _will_ be all right. You did well."

Severus nodded curtly, avoiding her eyes, and left the infirmary.

Potter was waiting for him; Severus had half-expected him to scarper off. Moaning Myrtle was wailing away near the ceiling; unable to concentrate with the racket she was making, he ordered her to leave, waiting to speak until she plunged into her toilet.

"I didn't mean it to happen," Potter said, too loudly. "I didn't know what that spell did." ++

Severus was grateful for his Shields, knowing he couldn't be certain of his own self-control without them. Even now, his fingers twitched over his wand, itching to hex, to _maim._ He resisted the urge, if barely, and said through clenched teeth, "Apparently I underestimated you, Potter. Who would have thought you knew such Dark Magic?" He stepped closer to the boy, looming threateningly. "Who taught you that spell?" ++

Potter's eyes darted briefly toward the closed door. "I—read about it somewhere." ++

"Where?" ++

"It was—a library book," Potter said, his voice cracking. "I can't remember what it was called—" ++

"Liar," Severus breathed. He grabbed Potter's chin, pinching it hard between his thumb and forefinger, and jerked the boy's face forward, and didn't bother to be gentle as he entered Potter's mind. ++

It was pathetically easy to find what he sought: The memory of Potter poring over Severus's old copy of _Advanced Potion-Making _appeared almost immediately. Stunned, Severus pulled out of his mind, stumbling back a step, breathing hard. Where the hell had Potter gotten his old Potions book? Was he to be spared nothing? The irony of what had nearly happened, of Potter almost managing to kill both him and Draco using a spell Severus himself had developed when he was seventeen. . .

"Bring me your schoolbag, and all of your schoolbooks," he said. "_All_ of them. Bring them to me here." Potter hesitated, eyes fixed on Severus, and Severus snapped, "Now!" ++

With Potter gone, he turned his attention to the burst pipes, sealing them temporarily with a muttered spell. The water on the floor lapped about his ankles, and he grimaced; Argus would not be pleased. Then he slumped against the wall, dropping his face briefly into one hand. _Bloody hell._

There was no question that Albus would not countenance the boy being expelled, he thought resentfully. A strange sense of déjà-vu washed over him, and it was only his Occlumency shields, dulling his edges of his anger, which prevented him from slamming his fist into the wall. Another Gryffindor nearly killing another Slytherin—and rather than being summarily dismissed from Hogwarts and packed off to Azkaban where he belonged, the most Severus could hope for was that Dumbledore would not repeal the massive number of detentions he fully intended Potter to serve. Grimly, he stared at the door, waiting for the boy's return, and began imagining how to make the rest of Potter's year as miserable as possible.

. . . . .

Hermione sat with her fist pressed against her mouth as Harry recounted what had happened in the girls' bathroom with Malfoy. He looked terrible, shaken and pale, his messy hair standing up and his T-shirt spattered with blood. She stared at that blood, feeling very cold, her breathing shallow, her mind racing. Had the Unbreakable Vow been activated? Oh, God-was any of the blood _Snape's?_ No, surely Harry would have mentioned-

Ron was moaning about the detentions Harry received as-in Hermione's opinion—a laughably lenient punishment for almost killing another student. She barely registered Ginny's scathing rejoinder about not understanding Quidditch, instead breaking into the conversation abruptly.

"Is Malfoy really going to be okay?" she asked.

"Merlin, Hermione, is that all you can think about?" Ron said, but she ignored him, looking hard at Harry.

"Yeah-Snape said he would be," Harry said, shrugging, then put his face in his hands. "Bloody Snape—you should have seen his face, he was so gleeful when he said Gryffindor'd be coming in last for the Cup this year. . ."

Hermione shook her head, staring at him, appalled by his attitude. By all their attitudes. Who cared about a stupid Quidditch match, or detentions? Even Ginny, who had always been so outspoken about the Prince's book, was taking Harry's side.

It was all she could do not to demand entry into Harry's memories, to see for herself what had happened. Instead, she turned around before she did something she might regret-force her way into his brain, hex him with painful boils, scream and rage like a mad woman, because there was no way Harry could know what he so nearly accomplished by almost killing Draco Malfoy. Keeping her face stony and her back straight, Hermione pushed open the portrait hole door, and stepped out into the blessedly empty corridor. There, she paused for a moment, spine pressed against the wall, adrenaline pumping through her veins and urging her to run. But getting detention or drawing attention to herself would be counterproductive, so she straightened her shoulders and affected what she hoped was a nonchalant expression as she walked down the staircase toward Snape's office.

The wards were up when she got there. Hermione stared at the door for several seconds, thinking, then turned before she could talk herself out of it and hurried toward the staircase leading to the dungeons, and her professor's chambers, her heart thudding the entire way, a single thought running through her mind: _He has to be okay._

He had wards up there, too, but she reached out to knock, anyway, praying that he was inside and not somewhere else in the castle or-Heaven forbid-summoned by Voldemort. The wards stung her fingers, and she jerked back, then fisted her hand for another go, when suddenly the door was wrenched open from the inside.

Snape stared at her. "What are you-"

"Oh my God," Hermione whispered, and reached out as if to touch him, letting her hand drop at the last second. She took a shuddery breath, trying to calm herself. "I just. . . I'm sorry—I was so afraid. . ."

"Get inside," Snape said tersely, and stepped back, black eyes scanning the hallway before shutting the door behind her.

They were standing in his cluttered sitting room, but Hermione didn't register her surroundings. She couldn't seem to tear her eyes away from Snape, who had moved to stand so that he was leaning against the back of a high-backed chair, his arms folded, his legs crossed at the ankle. He was dressed the way he'd been dressed all those months ago when Hermione watched him brew, shirtsleeves rolled up and hair tied roughly back. The room was cold, the fireplace unlit, and the skin of his forearms was pebbled from the chill, the fine dark hairs there standing at attention. He was looking resolutely down at the threadbare rug covering the stone floor.

"Are you okay?" Hermione finally managed, taking a step toward him.

Snape made a harsh sound at the back of his throat. "I'm fine," he said, not looking at her. "Perfectly fine."

Something was wrong, Hermione thought, narrowing her eyes, but she couldn't quite— She cleared her throat.

"Is Draco. . .?"

"Draco will recover."

"Good," she whispered.

At that, Snape's eyes snapped up to look at her, as though to gauge her sincerity. " 'Good,'" he mimicked, mouth twisted into an ugly sneer.

Hermione's stomach clenched, and she choked back a sob. Snape eyed her for a moment, his expression giving no hint as to what he was thinking, then jerked his head in the direction of the dark, narrow hallway.

"I'm brewing," he said. "Either leave or come with me, but the potion must be stirred."

She followed him into his laboratory, and stood a few steps away as he adjusted the flame beneath a large cauldron of a thick red liquid that she knew had to be Blood Replenisher, then stirred it several times. Finally, he set down the rod and stepped back, running a hand over his face.

"Why are you here?" he asked. He didn't look angry or annoyed or—anything, really. Just tired. The lack of inflection was disturbing. Hermione stared at him, realization dawning, and took a step forward.

"Are you—Professor, are you Occluding?" she asked, ignoring his question. The books she'd read about Occlumency had said it was a useful tool during times of emotional stress, particularly if one needed a clear head, but every one of them had warned against keeping one's Shields intact for too long. And she remembered all too clearly how bad Snape's own reaction had been after spending too long with his Shields in place after the attack on the Muggle church. "You shouldn't—"

He snorted. "Miss Granger, do not presume to tell me what I should or should not do."

She tightened her jaw. "Please, take them down."

"Miss _Granger,"_ Snape began warningly, but Hermione shook her head.

"Please." She licked her lips, then dared, "If something like what happened last time happens now. . . Well, there's no one here but me."

He stared at her for such a long time that she was certain he wasn't going to listen, and then, abruptly, his expression changed completely, his eyes stricken, and she knew he'd removed his shields. Snape passed a hand over his face, hunching his shoulders slightly. He looked suddenly frail, too thin without the bulk of his robes, the bones of his wrists overly prominent.

After a moment, Hermione moved closer to him. "Are you—"

"Goddamn it," he muttered, the Muggle oath sounding strange coming from his lips. "Leave me be."

"No," she said stubbornly; he could give her as many detentions as he had Harry. "Are you all right?"

"No," Snape snapped, echoing her. "I am _not_ all right. I am. . ." He raised a hand to his temple, then cursed, bringing his fingers down to eye level. They were shaking.

"I need to slice and add the slugs," he said, but made no move toward the table. Hermione bit her lip; he was pointedly not looking at her.

"I can do that," she offered, and nearly smiled when _that_ got eye contact from him. When he opened his mouth—no doubt to say something scathing—she said quickly, "You _know_ I can slice slugs evenly, at least."

Snape grunted, tucking his fingers into his armpits as though to hide them.

"Get on with it, then," he said.

She drew the jar of dead slugs toward her and chose one from the top, then carefully began slicing it at precise forty-five degree angles. "Will you tell me what happened?" she asked quietly, keeping her eyes on her task.

"Potter didn't tell you?" he asked, voice full of loathing.

"Harry. . . well, I'd like to hear it from you."

For a long moment, Snape didn't speak. Then he said, "I felt a. . . pain. A pull, of sorts. I followed it to the toilet. Potter was there—I believe they'd been dueling." He glanced at Hermione for confirmation, and she nodded, then looked back down at the table, picking up another slug. She was half-afraid, strangely, that if she stopped working, he would stop talking. And—a pull? That sounded positively. . . fair-minded, as far as it went. As though the vow were trying to give Snape a chance to fulfill it, rather than letting him die simply for not being in the room when Malfoy was hurt.

"They'd managed to burst several pipes by the time I arrived and Draco. . . Draco was on the floor." Snape's voice was strained. "Covered—_drenched_ in blood. I healed him, and brought him to the hospital wing, then returned to deal with your _friend."_ He made the last word sound like a curse.

Hermione added the slugs to the brew, aware that Snape was watching her every movement hawkishly. Once they were in, she adjusted the flame, then stepped away, some of the tension in her shoulders dissipating. For all her bravado, it would have just figured if _now_ she botched a simple blood-replenishing potion.

"Harry mentioned you sang the counter-spell," she said, wiping her hands on her robes. "Is that customary for healing spells?"

Red spots appeared on Snape's pale cheeks, and he bent his head as though examining the potion. A strand of dark hair, escaped from the queue at the back of his neck, fell forward into his eyes. Hermione's fingers itched to brush it back; she clasped her hands behind her back.

"Many are sung," he said, finally straightening. "Not all. Like most counter-spells, those which heal are usually specific to wounds from certain curses."

"It was lucky you knew the counter to that curse," she said earnestly.

Something like regret flickered across Snape's face as he looked at her. But, "Indeed," was all he said, before he gestured toward the cauldron.

"Douse the flame, if you please," he muttered before stalking out, down the dark hallway.

Hermione stared after him, bemused, then hurriedly did as he asked, leaving the potion to cool in its cauldron. She trailed her fingers over the stone wall as she followed the corridor back to the sitting room, where she found Snape sitting in a chair before the still-cold fireplace, cradling a glass of Firewhisky.

After only a moment's hesitation, Hermione sat in the chair opposite him. Snape did nothing to indicate he knew she was there, merely raised the glass to his lips and drank. She followed the motion of his throat as he swallowed, surprised and gratified that he had allowed her to stay this long, and looked surreptitiously around the room. But for the wonderful, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stuffed against one wall and the piles of books and parchments covering almost every available surface, the room could have belonged to anyone. The desk, tables, and armchairs were all standard-issue Hogwarts furniture, and Hermione didn't see any artwork or photographs-Wizarding or otherwise-anywhere.

"May I light the fire?" she asked finally. It was freezing in the room, even though outside, Spring had finally started to assert itself. Snape didn't answer, merely rolled one hand languidly in the direction of the fireplace, and taking that as permission, Hermione aimed her wand at the neatly stacked logs, casting a wordless _Incendio._

Snape knocked back the rest of his drink, setting the glass on the table by his elbow. Hermione watched him; he was hollow-eyed, the shadows from the flickering fire making him look gaunt and almost ill. As she watched, he Summoned the bottle of Firewhisky and poured himself another measure, then glowered at her as though daring her to disapprove.

"You nearly died today," Hermione murmured carefully. "I think you're allowed a drink or two."

"Well, thank you very much," Snape said snidely, but it was a pale imitation of his usual manner—a fact he seemed to realize, as he drained his glass in one long pull.

"You shouldn't be here," he muttered, moving to set the glass back on the table. It clattered slightly against the tabletop, his fingers unusually clumsy. "Fuck," he swore, raking a hand through his hair; then he looked at Hermione where she sat, staring at him in astonishment, and said again, _"Fuck."_ Leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, he buried his face in his hands and spoke into them. "I must have been mad to let you in. This is—inappropriate. And I am. . . I am—"

He made a noise halfway between a laugh and a sob, fingers clenching in his hair, pulling more strands from the thong that held them.

Hermione stood and approached him. Snape must have known she was there, but he didn't move. She squatted beside his chair, peering up at him, and after a moment, put one hand on his upper arm where it was covered by the fabric of his sleeve, moving her thumb gently back and forth. She half-expected him to pull away, but he didn't, instead murmuring, "I had a most. . . inconvenient epiphany, today."

She didn't say anything, merely squeezed his bicep briefly to encourage him to continue. His hands fell away from his face, hanging limply between his knees.

"I realized," he said slowly, staring into the fireplace, "that, contrary to what I have long believed, I do not actually wish to die." He turned his head slowly to look at her, eyes searching her face.

"Why are you here?" he whispered.

Hermione's thumb stilled its movement, her hand dropping away from his arm. Her mouth was very dry.

"I don't want you to die, either," she said.


	16. If you leave me, you are lost

_Disclaimer: Not mine._

. . . . .

When Severus woke to find himself alone in his sitting room, his first thought was that the night before—Draco and Potter's duel, his own reaction, and then Miss Granger appearing at the door to his chambers, worried about him, _touching_ him, glad he was alive—had been a dream. So, he thought, rubbing one hand across his face, she hadn't invaded his personal space, hadn't seen him, yet again, at his most vulnerable. Perversely, rather than feeling relieved, he felt a slow bubble of anger rise inside his chest. It bloody well figured that Miss Granger's transparent show of concern could only have been the product of his own mind.

Well, fuck it. Not even Albus had come to see him in the aftermath of Potter and Draco's duel, though he must have known exactly how Severus managed to be in the right place at the right moment. Severus could scarcely expect Miss Granger to come enquiring after him. He grimaced, rubbing at his goose-pebbled arms and turning his neck from side to side to work out the kinks.

And froze, staring at the slip of parchment whose corner was tucked under the empty tumbler on the table by his elbow.

_I didn't want to wake you, so I let myself out._

No salutation or signature, but he would know Miss Granger's handwriting anywhere after nearly six years of seeing it, usually in nightmarishly long essays. He picked the note up and read it again.

_I didn't want to wake you. . ._

The parchment dropped from Severus's nerveless fingers. His breath suddenly coming in panicked gasps, he leaned forward until his head was between his knees. He could suddenly _smell_ Draco's blood and the sour tang of his own fear, could feel again the Vow's terrible constriction of his lungs and heart. And then Miss Granger—the forthright way she'd looked at him, the feel of her hand on his arm, her touch seeming to burn him through the thin fabric of his shirt, the movement of her thumb sending shivers dancing across the small of his back. He shut his eyes tightly and breathed through his nose in short huffs.

How long had she stayed before penning that note? In his mind's eye, he saw her watching him with that pensive expression she so often wore, no doubt debating the merits of waking him versus letting him sleep.

How the _fuck_ had he allowed himself to fall asleep when she was sitting not three feet away?

"_I don't want you to die, either,"_ she'd said with typical bluntness, and he'd had no idea how to respond—had blurted something inane and finally recovered the presence of mind to shift away from her, heart pounding so hard he was sure she could hear it. And then she had retreated to her chair, and he had stared into the fire, aware of her eyes on his face. His last recollection was of willing himself to open his mouth and send her away while trying to still the subtle shaking of his hands, a tremor that had nothing to do with the chill the fire was beginning to dissipate and everything to do with the lowering of his Shields and the shameful gratitude that she was there.

Now, Severus swallowed hard. Her words from just before he had let his Shields go washed over him: _"There's no one here but me."_ As though she expected him to simply trust her with his most private reactions. As though she would not use his weakness against him. Panic welled up in his chest as he realized that he _had_ trusted her—he'd taken down his Shields at her request. He'd _fallen asleep_ while she sat beside him. His eyes found the parchment he'd dropped. Such a small thing, but—before his rational mind could talk him out of it, he snatched up the note, folded it carefully into quarters, and tucked it into his pocket.

. . . . .

Forty minutes later, Severus pushed open the door to the infirmary, exhaling a breath he hadn't known he was holding when he saw that the room was still dark, indicating Poppy had not yet risen. He'd finally roused himself enough to perform the most cursory of ablutions, scrubbing himself hastily under his armpits and around his groin, and then, feeling more solid once he'd donned the reassuring weight of his robes, left his quarters. Draco was in the hospital wing and not in a position to avoid him, and Severus knew he would be a fool to let the opportunity pass.

He made his way silently up the row of identical beds until he reached the only one whose privacy curtain was drawn closed. With one hand, he pulled the curtain aside, while he cast a wordless _Lumos_ with the other.

Draco was sleeping, and in the light cast by Severus's wand, he looked impossibly young. The Dittany had done its work well, leaving his pale face free of scars, almost as though the duel in the lavatory hadn't happened. Looking at him, Severus felt his throat tighten with a mixture of empathy and exasperation, and reached out to touch the younger man's shoulder, an indistinct lump under the blankets.

"Draco."

Draco stirred, eyes fluttering open. He looked blankly at Severus for a moment, before his expression closed off and he jerked away, pushing at the mattress with his palms until he was sitting more or less upright.

"What time is it?" he muttered, swiping a hand across his eyes.

"Not quite dawn." Severus jerked his wand briefly, casting a non-verbal _Muffliatto,_ then sat in the chair situation by the head of Draco's bed and crossed one leg over the other, steepling his fingertips. "How are you feeling?"

Draco shrugged. "As well as I could expect after nearly being sliced in two." He gave Severus a pointed look, adding sullenly, "Mostly _tired."_

Irritated, Severus snapped, "You must be aware that I would not have disturbed your rest had I any reason to believe you would meet with me willingly after you recuperated."

Expression stony, Draco didn't respond, merely crossing his arms over his chest.

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose, willing himself to control his temper. "I have heard Potter's version of events, but I would like to hear yours."

Ruthlessly, he quelled the image of Miss Granger that surfaced in his mind, his words an echo of hers the night before. He looked up to find Draco's face twisted into something like loathing.

"What is it?"

"Did he get anything more than a reprimand?" Draco looked like he wished he'd kept silent the moment the words were out, but he lifted his chin defiantly and added, "Or probably not even that, right? What was it—fifty points to Gryffindor and a bloody _sweet_ from Dumbledore for beating a Slytherin?"

Severus weighed his words carefully before responding. "I have no idea what, if anything, the headmaster said to Potter. Expulsion, of course, is out of the question for _him;_ however, he will be serving detention—with me—every Saturday until the end of term."

Draco snorted. Even to his own ears Severus's words sounded flimsy, but he shoved onward. "Well? Why did you duel?"

The younger man's expression tightened. "I don't have to tell you anything."

"I am still Head of Slytherin, Draco. Consider this a House matter."

Another snort. _"Houses._ As if that matters, now."

Severus sucked in a breath, feeling Draco's words hit him with all the physicality of a Stunner. The arrogant child he'd known for so long had, he realized, been forced to give up the trivialities of childhood and grow up very suddenly. However, he merely said, _"As_ your Head of House, I am very glad you were not permanently injured."

Draco shook his head in disbelief. "You'd never have saved me if not for that Vow."

"True." Severus raised one brow when Draco's eyes snapped up, full of hurt and accusation. It was gratifying to know that what transpired in the lavatory had, in fact, lessened the boy's suspicion and animosity, regardless of what he claimed to the contrary.

"If I had not Vowed to protect you, I would not have known what was happening until too late," Severus continued before Draco could say anything. "You would have _died,_ Draco, had I not entered into that most serious of magical pledges with your mother." He held the younger man's eyes for a moment before adding quietly, _"Yes,_ the Vow drew me to you, allowed me to help you. It does not follow, however, that I would not have wished with all my soul to have been there to save you, even had the Vow not compelled me to do so."

Draco's face was white and twisted with some emotion Severus couldn't name. Then his expression hardened again, and he spat, "What do you want from me? _Thanks?_ Is that what this is all about?"

Severus considered him. "No," he said. "Only some measure of trust." He knew, even as he spoke the words, how hopeless, how stupid they were.

Draco stared down at the blanket covering his lap. "I _can't,"_ he said, not looking up. "You're a spy—and I can't work out for which side. My mother. . ." His voice broke, and he took a steadying breath. "My mother trusts you. Aunt Bella thinks you're. . . And if I think I've worked it out, and I'm wrong, then my parents are dead, and I'm dead, and –" He curled his fingers around the blanket, bunching it, and fell silent but for his furious breathing.

Severus forced his expression to remain impassive. "Quite," he said. "However, even if you refuse to believe that I wish for you to succeed in the task our Lord has set for you, and in my sincere desire for your well-being—you might at least consider your own words from a moment ago." He stood, looking down his nose at Draco. "I _have_ made a Vow to protect you and help you in your task, which gives me a very personal reason to wish to see you succeed." He paused, then forced himself to add, "After all, Mr. Malfoy: I have no particular wish to die."

The words, the same he'd said the previous evening in Miss Granger's presence, sounded and tasted utterly different when spoken in this context. Then, they had been the verbalization of his most private feelings. Now, he spoke them sardonically, as though stating the obvious, but still, Severus had to close his eyes briefly as though that might erase the image of Miss Granger's face so close to his own, the concerned crease of her brow. The feel of her hand, and his own body's traitorous urge to lean fully into her touch. Unconsciously, his hand curled around the note in his pocket.

Remembering himself, his eyes flew open. Draco was watching him, frowning suspiciously. Though the boy seemed less inclined toward juvenile glory-seeking than he had in their last confrontation, it was clear that he still did not trust his professor's motives.

"Well?" Severus snapped, patience at an end. "Will you tell me what—"

"_No,"_ Draco interrupted. He shoved himself down the mattress until he was lying flat again, and turned his back on Severus, yanking the blanket up to his chin.

Severus glared down at the Draco's defensively curled body, only the back of his white-blond head visible. "Very well," he ground out. "You know where to find me if you change your mind."

He canceled the privacy spell and closed the curtain around Draco's bed with a jerk, then turned on his heel, intending to Floo the kitchens from his office form some dark, strong coffee.

But it wasn't meant to be. When he opened the infirmary's door, he found Albus standing outside, forearms resting against his stomach with each hand tucked into the opposite sleeve, effectively hiding the evidence of the curse that was killing him. Beside him was Narcissa Malfoy, her face creased with anger.

"—want him _gone,_ do you understand me?" she was saying.

"A natural reaction," Albus responded, maddeningly calm. "However, expulsion is not. . ." He trailed off, catching sight of Severus standing in the doorway. "Ah, Severus."

Narcissa whirled to face him. Above the neckline of her expensively tailored robes, her throat worked for a moment, betraying her.

"Severus," she said, moving toward him. "I cannot tell you how grateful I am—" She cut herself off and cast a glance at Dumbledore, then continued in a less effusive tone. "It is gratifying to know the Head of Slytherin, at least, takes the welfare of his charges seriously." She took a steadying breath and asked, "How is Draco?"

"Recovering," Severus said shortly. "Poppy has—"

"Don't be modest," Albus interrupted. He turned to Narcissa. "It was Severus, and not Madam Pomfrey, who healed your son's wounds, Mrs. Malfoy. His timely actions saved Draco's life."

"Then I am doubly grateful to him," Narcissa said, with something approaching her customary poise, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the taut line of her shoulders.

"I should like to see my son, now," she said.

Dumbledore nodded. "Of course. His is the only occupied bed, so you shall have perfect privacy."

Narcissa nodded tightly, and gave Severus a small but sincere smile. "I _am_ grateful," she murmured.

Severus was so filled with conflicting sensations—gratification, discomfort, a crippling rage at having no control—that he could do nothing except nod, his face uncomfortably warm.

Pausing in the doorway, Narcissa turned to Albus one last time. "You're disgraceful," she said, "and I shall also be writing to the Board of Governors about getting rid of both you and that _boy."_ There was no question who she meant, venom fairly dripping from her tone. "You are not the only one with influence over what happens at this school, Dumbledore. My husband—"

Catching herself, her face crumpled with humiliation, and before Severus could think of anything to say or do, she was gone.

Albus stood with his hands clasped behind his back for a long moment, gazing at the infirmary door as though he could see straight through it. Then he signed and turned slowly, his gait that of an old man.

Severus steeled himself for the inevitable questions, or even an order couched as an invitation to Dumbledore's office so the older wizard could rifle through his memory of the duel. For the ubiquitous inquiries into Severus's own well-being, which he was never quite convinced were sincere but which, to his shame, were appallingly welcome, nonetheless. Not that he'd ever give the old man the satisfaction of knowing.

Dumbledore paused just beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed. The steel was gone from his eyes, and he quirked one tufted brow.

"An entire term of detentions, my boy?" he said. "Was that really necessary? Harry has a great deal on his mind-"

Severus felt winded, as though Albus had struck him in the belly. _Potter_ has a great deal on his mind?" he snarled. "Really?" He whirled about, robes flaring around his legs, and said through gritted teeth, "Of course, it is your prerogative as headmaster to overturn his detentions. The detentions he received for nearly cleaving a fellow student in two-"

"With a spell you yourself created."

Severus closed his mouth with a snap. Ah. So this, too, was ultimately his fault.

Seemingly oblivious, Albus looked at the closed door to the hospital wing thoughtfully. "That did not go as I'd hoped."

Incredulous, Severus turned back to him, hissing, "As you _hoped?_ What, pray, did you _hope_ would happen, old man?" His anger mounting, he felt quite incapable of stopping himself as the words he'd been longing to say for months-_years_-came pouring from his mouth. "Her son almost died, and you thought this-this meeting could possibly go better than it did just now? I would not have blamed her for cursing you from here until next Autumn! How _dare_ you favor one student over another? How _dare_ you tell me that detentions are too harsh a punishment for the fucking _Chosen One!_ Draco almost _died!_ _I_ almost-"

He didn't even know he was shouting until Dumbledore waved his wand and Silenced him.

"Hush, Severus!" he snapped; then something like regret passed over his features as Severus's mouth worked in wordless, impotent fury. Another wave of the older man's wand, and the spell lifted, but Severus pressed his lips together mutinously, refusing to apologize for his near-indiscretion.

"So." Albus closed his eyes, red-veined lids looking thin as old parchment, then opened them again. His eyes, the only part of him that seemed ageless, pinned Severus where he stood. "How long you must have been wanting to say these things, my boy," he murmured, and his voice was tinged with such grief that Severus thought for a moment that he might be physically ill. "How long. . ." He shook his head.

"And yet," he added, after a moment of silence that felt like an eternity, "I must say, I find it rather. . . unjust for you, of all people, to speak of the evils of favoritism, particularly when I have allowed you such leeway when it came to awarding and deducting points and detentions." He looked, infuriatingly, amused. "You cannot tell me you believe _yourself_ to have been unbiased all these years?"

Staggered by the hypocrisy of it all, Severus managed, "There is a difference between favoring my own House with a few extra points and allowing a would-be murderer to go free!"

He wasn't sure, for a moment, whom he was talking about, Potter or the Sirius Black of his school days. Dumbledore gave him a shrewd look, and he thought perhaps the older wizard understood something of his feelings. But then the blue eyes shuttered.

"That 'would-be murderer' is our world's greatest hope." Albus sighed. "I understand your reasons for feeling as you do, Severus, but I _cannot_ allow Harry to be punished beyond the detentions you've set." He paused, staring down at his blackened hand with an unreadable expression. "I have asked him. . . _required_ him. . . to do what I, myself, could not." His tone, filled with regret, sent chills of foreboding down Severus's spine, and though he desperately wanted to ask Albus what in the seven hells he meant, he found that when the older wizard met his eyes, they Silenced him as effectively as any spell.

"Suffice it to say," Dumbledore said heavily, "he will be punished enough."

. . . . .

The morning of Harry's first detention with Snape found Hermione sitting beside her friend at breakfast, trying very, very hard to hold her tongue as he muttered insults about everything from Snape's looks to his motives, stabbing viciously at his food as though imagining the scrambled eggs were their professor's face.

It didn't help that the first detention coincided with Gryffindor's match against Ravenclaw. Part of Hermione twinged with sympathy-now, of all times, Harry could use the release and fun that Quidditch brought him-while another part tried very hard to overcome her self-control and remind him that a term's worth of Saturday detentions was _nothing_ compared to having nearly slaughtered another student. If he had just _listened_ to her about the ruddy Half-Blood Prince—

Firmly, she told that part of her to shut up, and took a bite of porridge.

When the Gryffindor team started getting up from the table, Ron leaned down, clapping an awkward hand on Harry's shoulder.

"Gotta warm up, mate," he said apologetically. Harry grimaced but nodded, looking glumly into his pumpkin juice.

Ron tilted his head in Hermione's direction then, a question in his eyes, and something else, something warm and almost shy. "You going to watch the match?"

She hesitated, glancing at Harry. She didn't particularly _want_ to go, but it wasn't as though she could go with Harry to his detention-even if, for reasons best left unexamined, that was the more appealing option. It seemed a very long time ago that she had _Confunded_ McLaggen to ensure Ron's place on the team, since she'd watched him play Keeper in an agony of anticipation that had nothing to do with the game itself and everything to do with the desire not to see the boy she liked embarrassed.

She flicked her eyes up toward the Head Table as the rest of their classmates began leaving the Great Hall, chatting noisily and placing bets on the match. What she saw made her freeze momentarily-Snape was looking directly at Harry, a sneer she could only describe as malicious playing about his mouth. Hermione pressed her lips together, torn between anger and understanding.

It had been difficult, ever since she left Snape asleep in his quarters, to revert to pretending he was nothing more to her than a teacher. To see him at meals, or stalking through the halls, or lecturing in Defense, and force herself not to see instead his face relaxed in slumber, the lines on his forehead smoothed out, his eyes closed and jaw slack, mouth open and emitting the sort of gusty, unselfconscious noises that could only be achieved by someone deeply asleep. To force herself not to feel again the coil of tenderness that had warmed her belly as she watched him. She remembered the way he'd jerked away from her after she told him she didn't want him to die, gasping out, "That is more than I'd have expected from-"

But he'd cut himself off, pressing his body as far as possible into the recesses of his chair, leaving Hermione to retreat to her own chair, wondering how he would have finished his thought. _From a student? A Gryffindor? . . . Anyone?_ She fully expected that he would dismiss her, then, but instead he'd stared pensively into the fire. Finally, she turned her gaze to the flames as well; when she chanced a look at Snape again, his eyes were closed, lashes dark against the pallor of his cheeks, his body relaxed and boneless, and her heart clenched with a fierce, protective affection that robbed her, temporarily, of the ability to do more than look at him.

Now, feeling her gaze, Snape shifted his own eyes to her. They stared at each other across the rapidly emptying hall for a long moment and then, belatedly, his usual scowl snapped into place, and he left the Great Hall through the teachers' exit, robes whipping about his calves.

Harry noticed Snape leave and shoved away from the table. "Wanker," he muttered. Then he turned to Hermione and offered her a faint, crooked smile.

"Cheer a bit extra for Gryffindor for me, will you?"

She managed a half-hearted smile in return and stood, following him to the Entrance Hall, where they paused awkwardly for a moment, she poised to follow the other students outside, he half-turned to make his way to Snape's office. "Sure."

He glared after a group of first-years excitedly hurrying from the hall, red and gold rosettes pinned to their robes, then sighed. "All right. See you, Hermione," he said, and hurried away.

. . . . .

To Severus's irritation, Potter was on time for his detention, though to his satisfaction, the boy looked as wary as Severus could have hoped when he spied the tattered boxes Argus brought up the night before. Dusty, with cobwebs clinging to their lids, the boxes had clearly long been moldering in some storage cupboard. As a Squib, Argus could not use magic to keep his files in order, and he was too proud to ask any of the staff to help, though a wand-wave could easily have shrunk and catalogued the records of every detention the caretaker had overseen for the past fifty years, not mention made them impervious to the ravages of time, damp, and mice.

These particular boxes, Severus knew, had been in storage for more than two decades; he'd asked Argus to bring them specially, knowing whose misdeeds were included among those catalogued inside. It was a feeble attempt at truly punishing the boy, perhaps, but it went a ways toward relieving the feeling of impotence with which he'd been wrestling.

Like father, like-fucking-son. If Potter was going to get off without expulsion after nearly killing another student, just like his father and godfather before him, Severus was determined to ensure that what punishment he did receive _hurt._

Settled at his desk, he pretended to grade exams while actually watching Potter covertly, feeling a pang of spiteful gladness when he saw the brat's fist involuntarily clench around one of the cards. Though he'd no doubt the absence of Potter the Elder stung, Severus knew from bitter experience that it would be the name of Sirius Black-the man Potter's recklessness, his refusal to listen to those around him, his bloody _pigheadedness_ had killed-that would cause the boy to feel like he'd been struck by a dozen Stunners at once. Over and over and over again he'd feel that, every Saturday until the end of term-for Black's offenses were many and varied. Just as Severus had felt it, every fucking day for nearly six years, whenever he met Potter's green eyes.

. . . . .

Sunday morning, Hermione arrived in the common room to find Harry, Ron and Ginny standing with several other members of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, preparing to head for the grounds for a pick-up game, apparently not having been sated by their win the day before.

"Hermione! You want to come out and watch?" Ginny asked, noticing her hovering uncertainly.

"Er-no, but thanks," she managed. "I've got homework. . ."

"Come on, Hermione," Harry wheedled, breaking away from the group and lacing his fingers with Ginny's. The red-haired girl gave him a smile that seemed to promise far more than hand-holding in his future. Hermione felt her stomach tighten.

"Not today," she said in what she hoped was a natural tone of voice.

Harry gave her a hard look, then shrugged. "Okay. See you at dinner?"

Hermione nodded. "Yeah." She pursed her lips for a moment as Harry and Ginny turned away, then said, "Wait, Harry-you never told me how your detention went."

Harry laughed. "Uh, yeah. Guess I was a little distracted." He grinned at Ginny, who chuckled and gently unlaced their fingers, trailing her hand across Harry's shoulders as she returned to the group. Harry rubbed the back of his neck. "It was terrible," he said finally, and his expression, so soft a moment before, was now stony.

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek before managing, "What-how so?"

"He's just so bloody _spiteful._ He had me going through a bunch of Filch's old files and they-I mean, I know that doesn't sound half as bad as some of his detentions, but. . ."

Hermione frowned. No, it didn't sound bad at all. Especially not after what Harry had done to deserve detention in the first place. "But?" she prompted.

"They were old records of other students' detentions," Harry muttered. "And a lot of them were my dad's. And. . . Sirius's."

Hermione swallowed. "Oh, Harry. . ."

"Their names were everywhere," he said bitterly. "Bastard knew it, too."

She couldn't think of anything to say. Except-

"I'm sorry."

Harry gave her an odd look. "Not your fault," he said; and then Ginny was tugging at his arm, and she and Harry and Ron were waving cheerfully at Hermione over their shoulders as they trooped with the other players out of the common room. After waiting several minutes, Hermione left it herself, heading for the library.

She didn't actually have homework, but she also didn't feel up to being around Harry and Ginny all afternoon. The initial surge of happiness she felt after watching them _finally_ kiss when Harry arrived back at the common room the day before quickly gave way to a tightness all along her skin that felt uncomfortably like envy. She'd retreated to one of the window seats, watching the celebration of Gryffindor's win from the sidelines with her bottle of illicit Butterbeer. In particular, she'd watched Harry and Ginny when they returned from wherever-they-disappeared-to, blushing and laughing and getting more than a little drunk with the rest of their Housemates. The way she'd felt so obviously free to plant another kiss smack on his lips in front of everyone, without the excuse of utter spontaneity that Harry had when he returned from his detention. The way he kept an arm around her waist all night.

She'd noticed Ron looking at her across the room several times over the course of the evening, but his attention didn't warm her as it once would have. Instead, she found herself jealously watching Harry and Ginny's easy affection and wanting, not Harry, or Ron, or some other nameless male, but wanting. . . _Wanting. . ._

Without conscious effort, she thought of Snape and the warmth of his arm against her hand, the scent of _her_ Amortentia clinging to his clothing, to his hair, his skin. She thought of the way he'd met her eyes in the Entrance Hall-weeks ago-and with only the faintest bump of his magic against her mind, quieted her racing thoughts, stilled her nervous fingers as they threaded together, comforted her with his magic's familiarity.

Damn it! _Why_ did he have to be so hateful towards Harry? If it had been any other teacher, Hermione might have thought they were trying to let Harry off easy, giving him work that was neither arduous nor the usual grimy, disgusting stuff Mr. Filch thought up. She supposed someone else might, misguidedly, imagine that a detention peppered with unexpected tidbits about Sirius and Harry's father would be, in its odd way, a treat.

But she knew Harry well enough, even before their Occlumency sessions, to know how horribly guilty he felt about Sirius. And Snape had been in Harry's head as well, albeit prior to Sirius's death; no doubt he understood perfectly the desperate affection Harry felt for his godfather. She remembered Snape's cold expression the year before in Umbridge's office, the way Harry refused to believe their professor was truly part of the Order. How that led to Sirius's fall through the Veil.

Snape's choice of punishment seemed petty and vindictive in a way that didn't seem to fit the circumstances. _"But this is_ Snape, _Hermione,"_ she could hear Harry saying, _"When's he ever passed up a chance to be vindictive?"_ And as much as she hated to admit it, he'd be right.

And yet. . . Somehow, she couldn't shake the feeling that there was something else going on. Snape was. . . well, yes, he was mean and hard and sometime cruel in small ways to those who didn't deserve it, but-Snape was also many things she admired, many thing she. . .

She shook her head, firmly shoving away that train of thought, and began making her way through the stacks. She might not have homework, but Harry's refusal, even after everything, to think badly of the Half-Blood Prince made Hermione's blood beat a furious, frustrated tattoo in her temples. And more than that-she had to admit-was the frustration that came with yet another bit of information that, in a year filled with such instances, she had failed to uncover.

Surely someone as clearly brilliant as the so-called Prince would have made _some_ mark in the Potions community. Unless. . . Well, who said the Prince had lived past his-or her-school years? The thought made Hermione pause. Plenty of people died young, for all kinds of reasons. Good grief, look at all of them now-how many of her school mates, her friends, her peers, would live to see the age of twenty?

Her mind was so busy chewing over _that_ unsettling thought as she idly flipped and scanned one issue's pages, that she nearly missed the article. It was small, tucked between an advertisement for the new _Cleansweep 300_ and a large article about proposed educational reforms being heard by the Wizengamot. Her hand was poised to turn the page, but the movement was arrested when she saw, as though it was sharply focused against otherwise blurry text, the name _Prince._

She gasped, reading the caption. _Eileen Prince, captain of the Hogwarts Gobstones Team. . ._ The girl in the photograph was plain, with limp dark hair, thick eyebrows, and a sour expression that made her appear even less attractive than she naturally was. There was nothing about her to warrant a second glance, yet Hermione found herself leaning forward until her nose was nearly pressed against the yellowed pages of the old _Prophet,_ her heart thudding the way it always did when she knew she was on to something important.

And the girl had been leader of the Gobstones team, which somehow seemed to indicate to Hermione that here was. . . had been. . . well, if not a kindred spirit, then at least someone who knew what it was like to have interests no one else found interesting.

Eileen Prince. Prince. _Prince._

A slow smile spread across Hermione's face.

. . . . .

She didn't bother Harry with her discovery right away. He was happier than she'd ever seen him, and Hermione didn't want to do anything to jeopardize that happiness, particularly as she knew it was unlikely to be long-lived. Dumbledore had been missing at meals more and more frequently, and when he did appear, she'd noticed him subtly favoring the the left side of his upper body, as though the curse had spread beyond his arm.

Once, she'd chanced a look at Snape to find his eyes trained down the length of the Head Table. As though feeling the weight of her gaze, he'd whipped his head around and scanned the crowd of students. When he found Hermione, the corners of his mouth tightened just barely, in the saddest, smallest acknowledgement she'd ever seen. Then he'd turned away.

Hermione hadn't tried to see Snape again outside of class time, partly because she knew, without being entirely certain why, that Dumbledore would be displeased if he found out, and partly because she wasn't sure of her reception; she had no idea what Snape's reaction to waking alone, and to her note, had been.

A week after she found the article, she was sitting at breakfast with her Arithmancy textbook open in front of her, frowning at a complex set of equations. Harry and Ginny were beside her, engaged in conversation, and Ron plopped down across from them, reaching for the nearest platter.

"Hermione, it's Sunday," he said, spooning eggs onto his plate. _"Sunday._ Can't you put your books away?"

"But it's fascinating," she said absently, turning a page. "I can't wait until we get to this chapter, it's-"

"You mean you don't even _have_ to read it right now?" Ron shook his head. "I've said it before, and I'll say it again: You're mental."

The arrival of the post owls prevented Hermione from having to reply. The Prophet thunked onto the table beside her bowl, and she was already unfolding it with one hand as she tucked a Knut into the pouch attached to the bird's leg with the other. Her stomach spasmed as she scanned the headlines, and she set the paper down carefully, feeling faint.

"You all right?" Ron leaned toward her across the table, then noticed the paper. "Anyone we know dea-"

"Yeah," she managed, gulping in a breath. "I mean, no, no one we know. Just . . um. . ." Her eyes shifted of their own volition to look at the Prophet's front page again, and she hastily closed them.

When she opened them again, all three of her friends were watching her with expressions of alarm. Unable to trust her voice, Hermione thrust the paper across the table at them, and watched as Harry's expression darkened and Ginny's face paled until her freckles stood out sharply as they skimmed the largest article, a gruesome description of what Aurors found when they responded to reports of the Dark Mark hovering above the home of a minor ministry official who had neglected to show up for work the day before.

". . . bodies of Haverston, his Muggle wife, and their two year-old son were found flayed. . ." Harry crushed the paper between his fists, looking furious.

"Damn," Ron said, going rather green when he looked at his unfinished kippers.

The noise from the other students seemed deafeningly loud. Hermione felt suddenly claustrophobic, shaky and ill. "I've got to-I need to go," she said.

_"Are_ you okay?" Ginny asked, frowning in concern.

"Yeah," Hermione lied. "I just-the story's just a little close to home, I guess." She grabbed her book and scrambled off the bench before any of them could protest, and hurried out of the hall.

. . . . .

Severus lowered his newspaper with deliberate slowness and set it beside his plate, carefully keeping the horror he felt from showing in his expression. He picked up his mug of coffee and took a sip, raising his eyes to scan the student body. The few who took the Prophet were mostly ignoring it in favor of talking with their housemates, but some were reading, their expressions varying from utmost revulsion to unsurprised resignation. A number of students at the Slytherin table were talking in low voices.

He had avoided seeking out Miss Granger since the night she came to his rooms, though it had become habit to transfer the bit of parchment on which she'd scribbled her note from one day's robes to the next's, for reasons he refused to articulate, even within his own mind. But now he found his eyes drawn to her figure at the Gryffindor table, and he knew instantly by the way she was sagging on the bench that she had seen the article. A moment later, she had leapt to her feet and was gone from the Great Hall, her breakfast abandoned.

Severus glanced at the paper again; folded in half, he could just see the edge of the Dark Mark as it hovered above the unfortunate Haverstons' residence. His eyes flicked up to the doorway through which Miss Granger had left, then down to his coffee. He kept his face impassive, but his stomach tightened anxiously.

_Damn it._

He was aware that he should leave well enough alone. The girl's reaction was understandable, certainly; after all, her parents were Muggles. Surely, any Muggle-born reading that story would feel as she did.

But she was no longer merely _any_ Muggle-born. Which was, of course, the danger Dumbledore warned him against; the thing that, at the beginning of the year, would have seemed patently absurd and which now. . . did not. Images from their Occlumency lessons prickled away behind his eyes—a wild-haired little girl learning to read at her father's knee; an eleven year-old child standing with her parents on Platform 9 ¾, her mother's hands clutching her desperately as they hugged good-bye; a young woman Levitating a pot down from a high cupboard while her parents looked on with a mixture of awe and fear—and Severus could feel intimately, as though the emotions were his own, the frustration that built subtly over the years during her visits home, the feeling of distance growing between herself and her family. The exquisite sense of cherishing and being cherished overlaying it all.

His fingers tightened around the mug they held, and he gritted his teeth, willing himself to be sensible, to leave the blasted girl to her own devices. He cut his eyes down the length of the Head Table.

Albus, being Albus, had of course chosen _this_ morning to attend breakfast, and was spooning an obscene amount of sugar over his porridge, gazing out over the Hall with a grave expression.

Just as well. Severus slumped back into his seat, cradling his mug in both hands. What did he think he was going to do, anyway-ask her if she wanted to _talk?_

Moments later, disgusted with himself-though whether for his impulse to go after the girl or his cowardice in being glad not to have to follow through, he didn't know-he gulped the last of his coffee so fast it scalded his throat going down.

. . . . .

Hermione was in the library when Snape found her-if "found" was the right word, for it seemed unspeakably self-centered to assume he was actually seeking her.

She had been growing increasingly frantic, flipping through books with far less care than she normally would have shown, but none of them were any help. Slamming the last book in her pile shut with a little too much force, she curled her hands into fists and pressed her knuckles against her eye sockets. Harry and Ron would just love to hear her admit it, but there were definitely times when books couldn't teach you everything.

Like what the _swirl_ movement at the end of _Protego Totalum_ was supposed to look and feel like.

Feeling horribly defeated, she returned each book to its place in the stacks and walked on leaden feet to the front of the library, hoping Madam Pince was at her desk.

The librarian looked up from her ledgers in obvious irritation. "Yes?"

"I'd like a pass to the Restricted Section, please," Hermione said.

"Do you have a note from a teacher?"

"No, but-"

"No note, no pass. You know the rules."

Hermione ground her teeth in frustration, then immediately stopped, seeing, in her mind's eye, twin expressions of alarm on her parents' faces. Her insides contracted.

"Please, it's very important." She struggled to keep her tone polite.

"If it's so important, get a teacher to write a note saying how important it is." Madam Pince shook her head. "Go on, now."

Something desperate was thrumming through Hermione, and it made her stand her ground. "Madam Pince, _please_-you know I'll be careful, I-"

The door to the corridor opened, and both witches turned in its direction. Snape stood there, looking, to Hermione's eyes, somewhat wrong-footed for a moment before he assumed his usual blank expression.

"Trouble?" he asked laconically.

The older woman fluttered her hand in Hermione's direction as though waving away a gnat. "This student," she said, "is trying to get into the Restricted Section. _Without_ a pass."

Snape turned his inscrutable gaze on Hermione. "Indeed?" His gaze turned intense for a fraction of a second, and she felt the press of his magic against her mind and heard his voice in her head-_"Follow me"_-its timbre sending a trickle of warmth down her spine. Then he turned to go, saying blandly, "The rest of the library is good enough for you just as it is for everyone else, Miss Granger. Stop wasting your betters' time."

Only a few months ago, the words would have stung. Now, Hermione merely watched for a moment as he disappeared into the stacks, then turned to Madam Pince. "I'll, ah, just have another look in the main section, then," she said, feeling a trifle breathless, and hurried away, feeling the older woman's suspicious gaze between her shoulder blades.

She found him near the back, only yards away from the Restricted Section. He turned upon hearing her approach, and crossed his arms over his chest.

"So," he said, and nodded in the direction of the door. "What is it you wanted to research?"

"Um, wards," she said. "Advanced ones." She felt oddly uncertain, and looked at him from under her lashes. His face was unreadable.

Snape pursed his lips, as though deciding something, then crossed to the door and pressed the tip of his wand against the wood, beckoning her to follow him inside with a curt movement of his head. She hurried to comply, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the dimmer light once the door closed behind them.

Snape sat in one of the armchairs, and Hermione did the same, clasping her hands tightly together in her lap.

"Would I be right to assume that this sudden desire to study advanced warding is due to the article at the front of this morning's _Prophet?"_

Surprised, Hermione nodded, then asked, before she could think better of it, "Did you know about the attack?"

Snape's jaw clenched. "I did not."

"Is that. . . I mean, do you usually know when things like this happen? To Muggleborns' families and-and people who defy Vol-ah, You-Know-Who?"

He shrugged, looking tired. "Not during the school year," he said tersely. "As I am the Dark Lord's eyes and ears in the school, he tends to only summon me when he needs _me_ specifically. This was the sort of thing any one of his minions could carry out."

"I'm glad," Hermione said impulsively. Snape raised his eyes to hers, and she made herself hold his regard steadily. "I mean-oh God, I don't mean I'm glad this happened, just that you weren't made to be a part of it."

"Make no mistake, Miss Granger," he said, and the bitterness in his voice twisted at her mostly-empty stomach. "Had I been summoned, I _would_ have been 'part of it,' as you so euphemistically put it."

"I know," she said quietly, dropping her eyes.

He broke what threatened to become a long silence by asking, "What did you think to achieve, exactly, by getting access to the Restricted Section?"

She shrugged. "The books in the main library are great for theory, but I was hoping for something a little more descriptive."

Snape leaned back in his chair, touching his steepled fingertips to his mouth.

"The sixth year Defense curriculum covers wards, as you ought to know, seeing as you've an exam on the subject coming up."

"I mean-really advanced stuff," Hermione said. When Snape merely looked at her, she added quietly, "Wards that might keep my parents safe. Hide them from Death Eaters."

"Ah." He tapped his fingertips together. "And I do not suppose it occurred to you that I might have some knowledge on the subject?"

She looked at him sharply, and he cut his eyes away, apparently looking at the bookshelves over her shoulder. Hermione's heart thudded; if he were anyone other than Snape, he would have sounded distinctly hurt. She searched for the right words.

"I. . . Well, yes, it did occur to me," she said. "But I wasn't sure you'd want me to pop 'round for another visit."

"I see." His expression tightened, and she knew that he did not see at all.

"I didn't want to annoy you, or ask you for more favors," she said hurriedly. "And I didn't want to cause you any more trouble with Professor Dumbledore."

Snape looked up at that, and she added, "I know he's not pleased by our—" _Friendship? Relationship?_ "—um. . . association, though I'm not sure I know why, exactly."

Her professor was silent for several minutes. "You are correct that the headmaster does not approve, for reasons I cannot. . . " He trailed off, then added, a hint of something fragile creeping into his otherwise controlled voice, "However—you should not think that your presence is. . . an annoyance. Or that I would have refused, had you requested my help with something so very important."

. . . . .

For a heart-stopping moment, Miss Granger looked as though she were trying very hard not to laugh. She pressed her lips together and looked down at her lap, hands gripping one another tightly. Severus felt a wave of mortification wash over him, though it was swiftly replaced by a rising anger, directed as much at himself as it was at her.

He had not actually needed anything in the library, and he'd argued with himself the entire way there, fighting back the gut-clenching knowledge that he was, for the first time, actively defying Dumbledore. And for what? The. . . _feelings_ of a girl who, a rising tide of insecurity insisted, would welcome his concern as much as anybody ever had-which was to say, not at all. The bit of his brain not dominated by an adolescent lack of self-confidence reminded him that _she_ had come to see _him_ when she was worried about him.

It seemed, however, that his adolescent self was right. As ever.

Then she raised her head, and in the flickering light from the sconces, her eyes looked strangely bright. Severus's anger dissipated as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by something sharp and painful deep inside as she smiled, a wide, beaming smile that held no trace of the amusement he'd expected, only a piercing gladness.

She opened her mouth to speak, but he forestalled her, unable to bear the pressure building in his chest. He spoke a touch too quickly, trying to get back to the matter at hand.

"You do realize," he said, "that the reason-aside from a number of issues with the Ministry and Statute of Secrecy-that the Order does not simply ward or Secret-Keep the homes of every Muggle-born student at Hogwarts is that such methods are only effective while the families remain within them, do you not?"

Nonplussed, Miss Granger's smile faltered. "Er-yes?

Severus tapped his fingers on his chair's armrest. "And as I recall, you had some. . . difficulties with your parents at the beginning of term. Have those issues been dealt with?"

"Not really, no," she admitted. "I owled them that I'd returned safely, and we've written since then. But. . ." She made a frustrated gesture with both hands. "Letters don't seem the right place to discuss my involvement in a war they don't even truly understand is going on. And I realize convincing them to be-well, house-bound, really-might be impossible. They have a practice to run, and of course they'd need food and. . ." She trailed off, leaning her forehead on her fist, staring at the floor. "But I have to try," she whispered.

Yes, she did. Severus got to his feet and drew his wand, feeling steadier as they re-entered the realm of the academic. He motioned for Miss Granger to stand, as well, and paused, thinking how best to begin.

"Wards," he said slowly, "are not so different from the Unforgiveables." Seeing her expression of surprise, he held up a hand. "Both require the caster to _mean_ the spells. To create truly effective wards, you must want, deeply, to keep safe whatever, or whomever, it is you're warding. Just as you must truly want to give pain in order to cast an effective _Cruciatus."_ He swallowed around the sudden constriction of his throat and glanced away from her. "Just as you must mean it, to kill with _Avada Kedavra."_ He stared, unseeing, at the wall of bookshelves.

She spoke, drawing Severus's attention back from the despair that was creeping up his arms and neck and shoulders, curling tendril-like around his skull. "So-the wards you put on your office. . . You needed to mean those as much as, say, the casters needed to mean the wards that protect Hogwarts?"

He shook his head. "Yes and no. I _did_ want to keep my office shut against prying miscreants" - He shot her a wry glance, and her lips shifted up in acknowledgement- "but the spells I chose aren't nearly as powerful as those on the school itself. Those required many casters, all working together, all working for the building's protection. We aren't going to bother discussing Hogwarts' wards right now, though I've no doubt you'll find a book or seven on the subject." Another quirk of his eyebrow, and she gave a small, sheepish laugh, the sound weaving warmly through the air between them.

"Okay," she said. "Intent matters, then. But, what if you don't really care? I mean, say Ron asked me to ward his collection of Chudley Cannons memorabilia. I wouldn't _care,_ not the way I care about my parents, at least. I'd do it, because he asked me and he's my friend, but unless there was some pressing reason I could understand, like You-Know-Who trying to communicate with Harry through one of the players on those stupid posters-"

Severus snorted involuntarily at that image; she rolled her eyes and continued.

"What happens if someone tries to ward something, but the intent isn't there?"

"Usually, the caster will still manage some protection, but it will be easily broken." He raised his wand. "Theory will only get you so far; let's begin."

. . . . .

They worked all afternoon in the cool, dim confines of the Restricted Section, forgetting time as they went over each spell again and again until Hermione could cast them perfectly. Snape brought the same intensity and focus to this as he had to their Occlumency lessons-as he had to Potions classes and lectures on the vilest of curses, his dark eyes focused critically on the way she held her wand, the turn of her wrist when she waved it.

_"Salvio Hexia,"_ she said, pointing her wand at the stack of books Snape had set up on the floor for practice, then, with a swirl of the wood, _"Cave Inimicum."_ Another wand movement, and she murmured, _"Protego Totalum,"_ and felt the thrum of something appear around the stack where they sat a few feet away. The first spell augmented the strength of the spells cast after, and the second was supposed to keep enemies out. The third, a variation on the standard Shield Charm, provided total protection from curses and hexes, as well as from prying eyes, offering the object upon which it was cast Undetectability.

Hermione nearly groaned aloud. This was the fourth time she'd cast the wards; previously, there had been no discernable difference in how the books appeared, but this time, they had taken on the hazy, not-quite-there quality provided by a Disillusionment Charm. Hermione might have felt hopeful that she'd finally mastered the trick, but from what Snape had told her, she shouldn't be able to see the books at all.

"It didn't work, did it?" she asked.

In response, he raised his wand and cast a Slicing Hex; for a second, it seemed her protections would hold, and then they shimmered and sort of popped, and Snape's spell hit home. Bits of pages burst into the air and fluttered to the floor.

"Apparently," Snape said, "you don't care about books as much as you claimed."

She flushed, flicking her wand at the now-teetering stack and casting a non-verbal _Reparo._ "Well, I knew you weren't _really_ going to hurt them," she said defensively. "And they're not people, after all." She pressed her mouth into a thin line, as though trying to hold back what was coming next, then blurted, "Let me try on you."

"Excuse me?" Snape eyed her warily.

Hermione unconsciously stepped closer to him. "Let me try to cast the wards around you. You said it was intent that counted-" He opened his mouth to interrupt, and she spoke over him. "-and since your safety is important to me, I think it's worth a try."

An odd expression flickered across his face, there and gone so quickly she didn't have time to interpret it. "Very well."

Feeling suddenly awkward, Hermione bit her lip, then gestured to one of the armchairs. "Er, I guess you might as well sit down."

He did so, holding his body stiffly. "You know that if the wards appear to be sound, you'll need to test their strength."

Thinking of the way the books' pages had been shredded by his spell, she said, "I don't want to hurt you." Human flesh was not, after all, so easy to repair.

Snape raised one brow. "If your work is effective, you won't." He leaned back, folding his arms across his narrow chest.

She looked at him, at his pale face framed by the lank wings of his hair; at his hands where they rested against his biceps. She suspected he didn't think she would succeed. _Intent,_ she thought fiercely, and closed her eyes, drawing on her memories of the man she'd grown to know over the past several months: Sitting beside her by the lake while she admitted to her growing fears; handing her a headache potion after exiting her mind too quickly; being sick on the floor of his office; removing his mental shields when she asked, looking as vulnerable as though he were naked.

Laughing with her, pushing her, testing her, listening to her. The comfort of his mind and his magic; the quiet enjoyment she felt in his company. The black mark on his forearm; his wand raised with countless others, burning a church full of Muggles. The crippling fear she'd felt inside his head. His admission: _"I do not actually wish to die."_ Her own frantic need to find him, to make sure he was safe.

She opened her eyes to find him watching her, expression inscrutable. She felt an instant's panic, that somehow he guessed what she was thinking.

Snape raised his eyebrows in a "What-are-you-waiting-for" gesture.

Right. Raising her wand, Hermione pointed it at him, gratified when he didn't flinch, merely met her gaze evenly.

_"Salvio Hexia,"_ she said clearly, and felt the movement of her magic as it was channeled through the vine wood. She moved her wand in a gentle circle. _"Cave Inimicum."_

A deep, steadying breath, and then, with a swirling motion, she cast the final spell, her pulse beating raggedly.

_"Protego Totalum."_

Snape, and the chair upon which he was sitting, vanished.

Severus knew it had worked when Miss Granger's face broke into a delighted smile. She stepped forward, looking intently in his direction, her eyes actually resting somewhere above his head. It was a strange sensation, watching her and knowing she was unable to see him, to read his expression or body language.

He held himself very still, allowing his gaze to flicker, just for a moment, from the crown of her head, down over her clavicle and the edge of her scar, just visible above the round neck of her shirt. He suddenly remembered her as she'd been in one of the earliest memories he'd witnessed: Damp and disheveled in the bath, mouth curled in a satisfied smile as she relaxed against the back of the tub, eyes fixated on the pages of the book hovering before her. A low, heavy sensation throbbed downward from the base of his spine, and Severus's fingers clenched. He shook his head to clear the image, wanting to speak, to harangue her for just standing there in silence rather than testing the wards as they'd discussed. But there would be no point; she would not be able to hear him.

The grin slowly faded from Miss Granger's face, and she palmed her wand, looking somehow both apprehensive and determined.

"Okay." She licked her lips. "I'm going to try to break the wards. Could you-can you put up your own Shield Charm, just in case?"

He let out a shuddering breath, amusement at her request and wonder that she cared enough to make it twining within him. With a wave of his wand, he put up a shield.

The girl waited several moments to give him ample time to cast the spell, then nodded in his direction, holding her wand aloft.

_"Confrigo!"_

The wards pulsed in response, but did not appear to break, an impression that was verified when Miss Granger blinked in Severus's general direction, clearly still unable to see him.

"It worked," she said, seeming more relieved than glad. She made a vague motion with her hand. "Come out, please; it's eerie, not being able to see or hear you."

Severus rose, but hesitated before leaving the narrow sphere she had warded. It was foolish in the extreme, utterly illogical, but the space felt quiet, padded. His breathing sounded soft and even.

Miss Granger was starting to look vaguely alarmed. "Professor?" she said. "Please-you _are_ there, right?" She moved closer, one hand clutching her wand, the other reaching tentatively forward, fingers outstretched. Without stopping to think, Severus thrust his own hand beyond the wards' reach, not quite touching her.

She looked uncertain for a moment, then grasped his hand, fingers curling around his palm. Severus tightened his grip and tugged her gently forward, within the boundaries of her protections.

. . . . .

They were very close to one another, close enough that she could smell him, close enough that she could feel his body heat and make out the individual hairs that made up his eyebrows. Though he was the one to pull her within the circle of the wards, Hermione thought that Snape looked startled by her nearness.

"There you are," Hermione said, offering him a small smile. "You had me worried, there."

Snape's fingers tightened around hers, the pad of his palm pressing warmly into the hollow of hers. Apparently the movement was involuntary, for he glanced down at their two hands, face going blank, then let go of her abruptly.

He began talking, and Hermione had the distinct impression he was trying to distract them both. She felt irritation stir briefly, before his words registered fully.

"The strength of these sorts of wards, their Undetectability, can also pose a danger," he said, not meeting her eyes. "Should you venture beyond their reach, there will be no way to find your way back, unless someone still within their confines lets you in."

Hermione blinked hard against a sudden sting of tears. Her parents would never agree to this. God _damn_ it. It would never work.

She looked up to find Snape watching her with a carefully neutral expression. "What is it?" he asked.

She shook her head quickly from side to side, staring at the toes of his boots, mere inches from her trainers. "It just seems so hopeless," she whispered. "I can't see them actually letting me do this. And even if they do, the practicalities are. . ." Another shake, hair flying about her face.

He bent his knees so that his face was level with hers. "Stop it," he said sharply. Surprised, Hermione met his eyes, staring at her with an intensity that made her breath catch. "Second-guessing yourself helps nothing. If your parents are anything like you, I imagine it will be difficult to convince them. But you must try. That is all any of us can do."

Hermione pressed her lips together and nodded slowly. _That poor family. . ._ The Dark Mark livid against the sky above their home; their bodies mutilated, left to rot. It was clear-from the growing number of attacks; from the stepped-up pace of Dumbledore and Harry's lessons; from the uneasiness that recently had settled into a sort of permanent, low simmer in her belly-that Voldemort's confidence was growing, and things were starting to happen quickly. She longed suddenly, atypically, to take her parents and Harry and Ron and the rest of the Weasleys and ward them all together somewhere until the whole thing was over. She glanced at the man before her, still peering into her face with his heavy brows furrowed, his thin lips pinched.

And him. Hermione wanted to take him somewhere far away, where neither Voldemort nor Dumbledore could touch him. Her eyes darted to the high collar of his frock coat, under which she knew his Order pendant lay. She didn't like to think so badly of her fellow Order members, but she had seen for herself the way so many of them looked at Snape, as though the man were an interloper, his presence only tolerated because Dumbledore required it. What, she wondered again, would happen when Dumbledore was gone? She knew from her reading that he couldn't have much time left-months, perhaps, if the curse was less aggressive than she thought, but no more than that.

Professor McGonagall, and perhaps Lupin and Mr. Weasley, would, she thought, stand up for Snape-but as far as Hermione knew, none of them knew about the Unbreakable Vow. None of them-herself included-knew all of the things Dumbledore had asked his spy to take on. Protecting the son of a Death Eater appeared suspicious, to say the least-would anyone but herself trust Snape if they knew what he was doing? Her breath caught, her mind snagging on the thought that she must-_must_-convince him that she was right in wanting to link their two necklaces.

She looked at him again, and saw the weariness in his expression. _Not right now,_ she thought. No, this time she wouldn't rush in like a Gryffindor. She'd lay out her argument fully, articulately, and then she'd meet with Snape to try to convince him. She attempted a smile.

Looking discomfited, Snape unbent to his full height. "It's nearly dinner time," he said. "I'd advise you to be cautious when entering the library proper; don't think I'll speak on your behalf if she catches you leaving here."

Hermione's smile turned genuine. "I wouldn't dream of expecting anything of the kind."

Snape's lips quirked just barely, and her voice suddenly stuck in her throat around all the things she wanted to say. Finally, after many seconds had ticked by and Snape's half-smile had been replaced by a wary sort of intensity, she settled for a whispered, "Thank you."

He nodded gruffly, looking away. "You did well," he said, and gestured with one hand at the narrow, warded space in which they stood. "If you do convince them, it's likely your parents will be quite safe." He motioned toward the door, his bleak expression at odds with the hopeful words, and Hermione felt a frisson of determination straighten her spine. Impulsively, she caught his hand between both of hers as he lowered it to his side, and squeezed.

"Yes—_safe,"_ she said fiercely, then released him, stepping outside the reach of the wards. When she looked over her shoulder before leaving the room, Snape was once again invisible to her, but she knew from the prickling at the back of her neck that he was watching her go.

. . . . .

_A/N: I know it has been a long time since I updated, and I want to thank you all for your patience! And a HUGE thank-you goes out to my incredible beta, Ivy Amelia, for her expert proofreading, her insights into the characters' motives and the nature of wards, and her constant encouragement. Without her, I have no doubt you'd all be waiting another five or six months for this chapter!_


	17. The holds that would hold me

_Disclaimer: It isn't mine. _

"Wand _up,_ Mr. Rhythmore," Severus said, jerking the second-year's arm higher. "I assure you, your reflexes are not sufficiently honed for you to hope to counter an opponent's attack with your arms dangling at your sides." He stepped back, and nodded at Rhythmore's partner, a painfully shy Ravenclaw girl who looked at least two years younger than she actually was. "Again, Miss Cole."

Once he was certain Rhythmore was not about to let his guard down again immediately, Severus resumed pacing the classroom, watching each pair of dueling second-years. A few were doing fairly well, with decent form and good instincts, but most were sloppy at best, their bodies held too loosely, their attention too prone to wandering.

Of course, this was why students were introduced gradually to the intricacies of Defense; they could not realistically be expected, as first or second-years, to control their magic, to discipline themselves, enough to fare well in a true fight. But now, now of all times, they needed to be able to defend themselves-to defend each other. He watched as Rhythmore, distracted by the antics of one of his friends, allowed Miss Cole to hit him with a Jelly-legs Jinx, which sent him crashing into another unsuspecting pair of students. Severus cast a swift _Finite,_ and hauled Rhythmore off the floor by his collar.

"Thirty points from Hufflepuff!" he snarled, and shook the boy loose, shoving him away. "And ten points each from the rest of you, for general incompetence!"

They were all staring at him with varying expressions of fear and wariness.

"Get out, all of you," Severus said, though there was at least half an hour left of class. He turned away.

As he retreated to his office, he could hear the students scrambling to gather their things, muttering to each other in low voices. A slow, creeping despair came over him. He had failed them.

. . . . .

Hermione stormed in the direction of the library, hands balled into fists, neck tight with irritation.

" 'I just know the Prince is a bloke, Hermione,' " she muttered under her breath, mimicking Harry. She ignored the odd looks cast in her direction by a couple of passing Fourth Years, instead increasing her pace to hurry past them. It wasn't so much that she truly believed her friend thought a girl incapable of developing all those spells and potions-recipe variations; rather, it was his refusal to even consider the possibility that he was wrong. Despite all evidence to the contrary, Harry was still convinced that the Prince was both male and _good,_ while Hermione thought the evidence she'd found in favor of the Prince being female was quite compelling. And while she wouldn't say she thought the creator of those spells was all bad, she still didn't like Harry's blind trust-no matter what gender the Prince turned out to be.

Perhaps it was childish of her to storm from the Common Room the way she had, but she absolutely had to get away from Harry for a bit.

Her steps slowed as she passed Snape's classroom; she had unconsciously taken the long way around to get to the library. She stopped walking, glancing up and down the now-deserted corridor, then in the direction of the classroom. There was faint light showing in the crack under the door.

She reached up and pressed her fingertips to the hard, smooth surface of her Order pendant under the fabric of her T-shirt. The school year was coming closer and closer to its end; who knew what would come before the start of next term? Squaring her shoulders, she stepped up to the door. Snape was likely to shout at her whether she brought this up now or procrastinated for a week; might as well get it over with.

Hesitating for only a moment, she knocked.

. . . . .

Something wasn't right. Severus sat in his office, fingers tapping an erratic rhythm on the desktop, one leg jiggling with uncharacteristic nervous energy. His skin felt dry and prickly, as though something, some force, was buzzing across it at a low level of intensity. He stood and left the confines of his office for the wider area of his classroom and began pacing, feeling the need for movement.

It was the Vow. It had to be. Though this was nothing like the terrible urgency of the pull its magic had exerted upon him during Draco and Potter's duel, something was telling him there was somewhere he needed to be, but he was uncertain, as yet, exactly where that somewhere was. He wondered if he ought to go in search of Draco, but as every attempt to find the boy thus far since the beginning of the school year had proved futile, Severus found himself reluctant to leave the sanctuary of his office while in such an agitated state.

A knock on his classroom door startled him more than it ought, and he whipped around, wand at the ready. "What?" he snapped.

The door opened, and Hermione Granger peered cautiously around its edge. "Am I disturbing you?" she asked.

_Yes. Say yes, you fuckwit-_

"No."

She entered the room fully, closing the door behind her. When she met his eyes and Severus saw the determination in her own, he braced himself.

"I need to talk to you," she said. Her voice was firm, but the tense way she held herself betrayed her nerves. She offered him a small, wry smile.

"You're not going to like it."

"When do I ever?" he retorted, and rolled his shoulders, trying to ignore the shivers of-something-writhing across them.

Miss Granger looked at him oddly. "Are you all right? Only, you seem. . . antsy."

Severus gritted his teeth as the sensation increased momentarily in intensity, then reverted to its former vaguely uncomfortable state. "I'm fine."

She just kept looking at him, clearly unconvinced.

"You were going to say. . . ?" he demanded, the prickling, and its implications, making him snappish.

Looking as though she had half a mind to leave him be, Miss Granger cleared her throat, but didn't immediately speak, instead studying the floor as though searching for the right words.

"Sometime today," Severus snarled, though he immediately wished he hadn't when Miss Granger looked up at him, startled, and more than a little hurt, cheeks reddening even as her eyes glinted with purpose. She opened and closed her mouth several times, his temper having put her off her stride.

"I-I know this is probably the last thing you want me to bring up again," she finally began, "but I can't help thinking. . . That is, I feel very strongly that. . ."

Severus exhaled through clenched teeth. _"What?"_

"What happened with the Vow terrified me-"

He snorted at that, and she smiled a little.

"Right, well, probably not as much as it terrified you, but. . ." She looked at him seriously. "It _did_ terrify me. And what scares me even more is that no one from our side but Professor Dumbledore and I know about the Vow at all, and Professor Dumbledore's _dying."_ She took a step forward, and Severus nearly stepped back.

"What happens when he's gone?" she demanded, an echo of the question he'd never gotten the chance to answer in his office weeks earlier. _"No one else knows!_ Well, except Ron and Harry, but they only know what Harry overheard. What happened that day, when the Vow was activated. . ." She swallowed and looked away from him. "I was so afraid for you," she muttered. "And I have so many questions about the implications of Professor Dumbledore's. . . well. I mean, who's going to lead the Order? What-"

But Severus cut her off, the slash of his mouth warning her of his fury.

_"I don't know!"_ he roared. He did step away then, and turned his back on her, but a moment later, he swung around to face her again, breathing heavily, and asked tightly, "What, exactly, is your point?"

"This!" Miss Granger said. She fumbled with the top buttons on her thin cardigan while Severus watched her, his eyes wide and mouth slightly open, until she finally tugged the chain of her Order pendant out from under her collar, holding it up and away from her throat in one fist. "I wish you'd reconsider letting me charm our pendants to communicate with one another."

His brows crashed together. "Of all the-Miss Granger, I gave you my answer on that topic." He shifted, the awareness of the Vow whispering against his skin making him restless. Miss Granger frowned, her eyes tracking the movement.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"Nothing, I-" Severus grimaced and rolled his shoulders, irritated with himself for not being more circumspect, but finding the Vow's trailing magic increasingly difficult to ignore.

"It's not nothing," she said sharply.

"It's certainly nothing you or your blasted pendants can do anything about," he said, resisting, if barely, the urge to loosen his collar. The sensation that he needed to be somewhere, to be doing something-if not now, then _soon_-rippled across his shoulders and down over his arms and chest, distracting but not yet insistent. Fear filled his chest cavity, heavy and suffocating.

If it _was_ the Vow, as he believed, he had to get her out of here. If the fucking thing yanked at him as it had before, he couldn't have her following him to whatever-it-was that awaited. She was too intelligent to try to stop him, particularly as he had explained the effects of the Vow to her previously, and, for whatever reason, she seemed inclined to want him alive.

Her eyes darted back and forth across his face, as though trying to read the truth of the situation there. He grimaced, trying very hard to keep his hands at his sides, rather than allowing them to reach up to the back of his neck, where the Vow's magic was sending uncomfortable prickles that were begging to be rubbed away. His fingers twitched.

"You need to leave," he said. "Now."

Miss Granger didn't move. "It's-is something happening with Malfoy?" she asked, her voice scarcely louder than a whisper. "It is, isn't it? It's the Vow-"

Severus jerked slightly, partly in response, partly as a result of the prickles moving down his arms and across the backs of his hands. His breathing turned shallow as he tried to think, tried to concentrate, but how the fuck was he supposed to concentrate when his very skin was telling him Draco might be in danger _and he had no way of knowing how to help?_

The thing he hadn't allowed himself to consider chose that moment to scramble to the forefront of his mind. Perhaps Draco was not in trouble; perhaps he was close to succeeding in his task. The thought froze Severus's blood in the act of moving through his veins, and he staggered away from Miss Granger, clutching at the sides of his desk for balance. Her footsteps across the flagstones forewarned him that she'd come after him, and when she put one hand tentatively against his shoulder, he shuddered with dread.

What would happen to her, if Draco truly was about to succeed? For though it was hard to imagine the frightened boy he'd confronted in the hospital wing actually bringing himself to kill another human being, there was the chance that Draco's desperation would be enough to overcome his fear. And whether Draco or he, himself, ended up casting _Avada Kedavra,_ Severus knew that with Albus gone, he would have to leave Hogwarts immediately.

He turned his head to look over his shoulder at Miss Granger, who regarded him with wide, frightened eyes. Slowly, he straightened, shifting so her hand was forced to drop away from him, leaving in its wake a tingling warmth far more pleasurable than the lingering discomfort of the Vow's magic.

Albus was going to die-of his own desire, by Severus's wand, but the curse that was steadily claiming his body would do the work just as well, eventually. Albus was going to die, and Potter was a Horcrux but didn't know it, and that left Potter and his friends floundering, with no one, presumably, to help or guide them.

He opened his mouth, but clearly the girl expected more resistance from him, for she brought her fingers up, holding them against his mouth to prevent him from speaking.

"I said this before," she said fiercely, "but I want to make sure you've heard me. I'm not stupid, or-or prideful. I don't think this is guaranteed to help anything. And I know there's a lot that I _don't_ know, and that there are things you don't know, and that maybe this will interfere with something neither of us knows about, but. . ."

She stopped babbling, taking a deep breath and closing her eyes. Severus was frozen, the pads of her fingers warm against his lips. When she opened them, Miss Granger's own eyes widened in response, and she snatched her hand away, clasping it with her other hand behind her back as though to hide the evidence of her transgression.

But Severus didn't move except for the rise and fall of his chest in time with his too-quick breathing, his teeth gritted and hair falling forward into his eyes.

Her right hand twitched within her left hand's grasp, and suddenly Miss Granger had moved toward him again, perhaps emboldened by his lack of ire, raising her hand and brushing the limp strands away from his face. Her fingers grazed his forehead, his temple and cheekbone and the bite of stubble along his jaw, before she tucked the hair behind his ear.

Then, not looking away from him, she stepped back.

"I wish you'd consider it," she repeated, her voice surprisingly steady.

Severus licked his lips, the buzz of the Vow's magic along his skin suddenly less disconcerting than the trail of heat her fingers had left behind along the side of his face. He opened his mouth, then closed it again and cleared his throat, glancing away from her in order to gain some measure of composure.

When he looked back, she was watching him closely, a pucker between her brows.

"Very well," he said.

. . . . .

Hermione felt her eyes widen in surprise. "Yes?" she said, scarcely daring to believe she'd understood correctly.

A dull flush colored Snape's sallow cheeks. "You've never been hard-of-hearing," he muttered, and rubbed his palms, hard, up and down his arms.

She resisted the urge to reach out to him again. What was going _on?_ Snape hadn't verbally confirmed her suspicion that the Vow was at work, but the fact that he hadn't denied it, either, seemed as good a confirmation as any. And when she'd touched him, she'd felt it-the shiver of _something_ across his cheek, down the shell of his ear, just barely there, but tingling the way magic did. She felt heat creep up her neck and cheeks, but willed it down-this wasn't the time to indulge in embarrassment.

She looked at Snape, and waited for him to say something. Anything.

But Snape didn't speak. Instead, eyes fixed on the ceiling, he reached up and undid the top three buttons on his coat, then the white shirt underneath. The skin he revealed was pale as skimmed milk; sparse dark hair dusted the square inch of chest exposed just below his throat, where his Order pendant lay.

He reached up under his hair and unclasped the chain, then held it out, finally meeting her eyes. Hermione reached out and he released the necklace into her palm, their fingers brushing. She swallowed.

Snape pressed the heels of his hands against his eye sockets. "Will this take long?" he asked tightly.

She shook her head. "It shouldn't, if I've figured everything out correctly."

"Fine." He began doing up his buttons as he spoke. "Get started." He moved to sit behind his desk, dropping his forehead into his palm.

Hermione deliberately turned her back on him, trying very hard to pretend she was alone in the room. She hadn't figured on how nervous it would make her, to try to get this right while Snape watched. He'd begun drumming the fingers of one hand restlessly against the desktop, an irregular staccato beat that was terribly distracting.

She set his necklace on one of the student desks, then unclasped her own and laid it down, too. Grasping her wand, she closed her eyes for a moment, visualizing the proper wand-movements.

The Protean Charms Dumbledore had applied to all of the Order members' pendants both allowed him to communicate with each of them, and made the pendants assume the form of small notebooks. His Undetectable Extension Charms made the notebooks contain far more pages of writing than they should be able to, given their size. Hermione wanted to leave both these charms in place while adding her own Protean Charm, which would link only her necklace and Snape's together.

The trick, she'd finally figured out, to layering a new Protean Charm on top of the existing one Dumbledore had set, was a clever little flick of the wrist at the very end of the incantation, which ensured the new charm would imbue the pendants and link them together, but not negate any previously-set spells. Once she'd figured that out, actually charming the pendants was really quite simple, though this knowledge did little to dispel her natural inclination to be afraid of making a mistake.

Taking an unsteady breath, she opened her eyes, aiming her wand at her pendant first. A murmured incantation, a flick of her wrist, and then she swirled her wand without ending the spell, aiming it at Snape's pendant this time and repeating the proper wand-movements to imbue it, like hers, with the charm that would connect them.

Then, with a final wrist-flick, she was finished.

. . . . .

Looking at their two necklaces laying so mundanely side-by-side on the desktop, Severus thought it felt rather anticlimactic, after all the bother Miss Granger had gone to. As he watched, she turned slowly to look at him, and he stilled the tapping of his fingers with a great effort.

"Well?" he asked.

In answer, she handed him his necklace and retrieved her own. "See if you can send me a message."

Severus raised one eyebrow at her order. Then he glanced down at the pendant where it rested in the hollow of his palm, and touched the tip of his wand to its surface, looking at her cagily before pressing his wand, again, to what was now a blank notebook page, and murmuring something too quietly for her to hear. Then he looked back at her with an expression that would have been bland, had he not then grimaced and rolled his neck and shoulders as though trying to shake off a troubling sensation. At the same moment, she obviously felt her pendant grow warm in her palm, for she touched it with her wand-tip and let the front and back covers of the resulting notebook fall away to see printed on the exposed page: _Hello._

Miss Granger broke into a grin and raised her eyes to Severus's. He began to rise from his chair, then winced, closing his eyes and holding very still as the Vow's magic plucked gently at his body, not yet directing him where to go but indicating that he _would_ be going somewhere, and soon.

Looking concerned, Miss Granger stepped toward him, and lifted her hand as though to touch his shoulder. "Are you all-"

She cut herself off, her fingers hanging an inch above his arm. "I can feel it," she said. "The magic-it's-_crawling._ Do you-shall I go for Professor Dumbledore?"

"No," he said, voice tight, his mind focused on a single thought: He had to get her out of there. "You need to go." He opened his eyes and held hers, his gaze nearly as intense as though he were using Legilimency. "Speak to _no one_ about this," he said.

"But-"

His hands were suddenly on her upper arms without his being aware of putting them there, fingers and thumbs digging into her flesh. "Promise me!"

She could obviously feel the magic of the Vow against against her own skin, where it buzzed along the pads of his fingers. "I promise," she whispered, looking terrified.

Severus loosened his grip, though he didn't let go of her arms. He was suddenly, perversely, loathe to let her go. If he was right-if Draco was. . .

This might be the last time he saw her. Charming their pendants was all well and good, but how likely was she to trust any messages he sent her after he. . .

_Not bloody likely,_ the magic skimming over his body seemed to be hissing.

Abruptly, he released her and stepped away. "Go, now."

She cast him a worried glance, and he thought, for a breath-stopping moment as she raised her hands, that she was going to touch him again. But instead she re-clasped her necklace about her throat, hiding it under her shirt.

"Okay," she said, straightening her shoulders, though her eyes were wet.

"Just. . . Be careful."

And then she _did_ touch him-moved across the empty space between them and stood on her toes, throwing her arms around his neck. Severus had a brief, gob-smacked impression of the press of her cheek against his, the untamable cloud of her hair tickling his nose, her fingers bunching the fabric at the neck of his robes as she clutched him closer. He felt her shudder as the Vow's magic rippled between them, and then she pulled back, looking at him, hard.

"Please be careful," she repeated.

And then she was gone.

. . . . .

Hermione returned to the common room, feeling as though her entire body was weighted down by fear. She'd never seen Snape like that, before, and the implications of the Vow asserting itself were so terrifying she could hardly think. When she found Ron sitting alone, and when he told her Harry had been summoned by Dumbledore, her insides bound themselves into a tight knot just under her ribs. And when Harry himself practically flew through the portrait hole not long after that, bounded up the stairs to the boys' dormitory and then back down again, thrust the remaining Felix Felicis into Ron's hands and the Marauder's Map into Hermione's, telling her to keep an eye both on Snape and on Malfoy-who was celebrating in the Room of Requirement-and then rushed off to _hunt Horcruxes_ with the headmaster, she truly thought she might ill.

Now, she sat alone in the common room, waiting for Ron to return with Ginny; waiting to see if any of the D.A. members would answer her summons. It seemed unlikely, as neither she nor Ron even bothered to carry their coins around anymore-she'd had to dig hers out from under a pile of old essays in her trunk.

Touching her wand to the blank parchment she held, she murmured, "I solemnly swear I am up to no good," and watched as ink appeared to flow over the surface, leaving in its wake a replica of Hogwarts. She frowned, eyes searching for the tiny dot that would represent Malfoy and not finding it anywhere. Probably still in the Room of Requirement, then. Her gaze lowered until she was looking at the inked-in representation of Snape's classroom and office, where his little dot was pacing.

She raised her eyes from the Map, checking to make sure the common room was still deserted, then drew her Order pendant out from under her shirt, enlarging it and pressing her wand to one of the pages. Then she hesitated, feeling odd about contacting Snape not half an hour after he demanded she leave his classroom.

But in this, his need to know far outweighed his desire to be left alone. With that thought, she whispered, "Harry and Dumbledore have left the castle together," and watched as the words appeared on the page before fading away, presumably to reappear in Snape's notebook. Hurriedly snatching up the Map, Hermione sought Snape's dot with her eyes, and noted a second later that his pacing stopped, as abruptly as though he'd been startled by the heat of his necklace against his skin.

And then, suddenly, panic erupted, sending a flush of heat and then a wave of cold over Hermione's entire body, leaving her shaking. _Shit_-so _this_ was what Snape had been talking about, the reason he'd resisted her in this for so long. This was why Dumbledore had held onto the power to transmit messages so tightly. Seeing those words disappear, being unable to summon them back-even though she'd understood, intellectually, what he meant about the dangers if their pendants fell into the wrong hands, there was knowing in theory, and there was _doing._

Hermione balled her hands into fists and tried to breathe evenly. There was a reason, she reminded herself, that she had invited Snape's ire more than once to get him to agree to this. The risk was worth it. And besides, there was no way to take it all back, now.

She tucked her pendant away, unsurprised that he had sent no reply, just as Ron and Ginny scrambled through the portrait hole. A second later, before the portrait had even swung completely closed, Neville followed, ushering Luna ahead of him.

"I filled them in," Ron said. He nodded to the Map. "Anything happening?"

Hermione shook her head. "There's no sign of Malfoy anywhere."

He blew out a frustrated breath. "And Snape?"

_"Professor_ Snape is in his office."

It was a mark of how nervous Ron was that he didn't even bother to roll his eyes, merely looked mildly exasperated as he took the little bottle of lucky potion out of his pocket and held it up to the light.

"Not much here," he said, looking around at them all. "Er-just a taste for each of us, then?" He thumbed the cork from the top of the bottle and raised the bottle to his lips. Hermione watched as he took the tiniest of sips, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. Almost immediately, his face split into a wide grin, and he passed the potion to Ginny, who followed suit. Neville's cheeks grew pink with some private pleasure after he took his sip, and Luna giggled before passing the bottle to Hermione.

Hermione held it for a second, warm after being passed among so many hands. She wished Harry had taken a bit before he dashed off, even if it meant less for everyone else. She was by no means certain, as he was, that being with Dumbledore meant he would automatically be okay. And she wished there was some way Snape could have some as well, only that was impossible, of course. He'd made her leave, and there was no good excuse she could make to her friends for not drinking her share.

She tipped the bottle up so the golden liquid inside slid toward her open mouth. When the first drop hit her tongue, however, Hermione jerked, shocked, as a warm certainty that she _must not_ drink any more shot through her. She clamped her mouth closed but didn't immediately lower the bottle to her side. Instead, she allowed the drop to trickle down her throat, leaving in its wake a glorious, tingling warmth that immediately spread to her shoulders, arms, and chest, and up to her sinuses. She lowered her hand and kept her hand wrapped firmly around the bottle, enveloping it so the others couldn't see how much liquid was left inside.

And then, as though the tiny bit she'd ingested were already working in her favor, Ron said, "Right, then-Hermione, you've got the Map; you need to keep an eye on Snape and Malfoy for us, and send a message as soon as you see either one moving." He eyed the rest of the group. "Luna, you help her. Neville and Ginny and I'll stake out the Room of Requirement, so we're right there if Harry's right and Malfoy's still inside. Keep all our hoops guarded." He was grinning, as though the same feeling of _rightness_ was pulsing through his veins as was pulsing through Hermione's, overriding the nerves she knew she ought to be feeling.

None of them, save Luna, whose protuberant eyes seemed to miss nothing, appeared to notice that Hermione was still holding the flask, and with that drop of Felix surging through her body, she felt a happy certainty that Luna knowing wasn't a danger.

"Be careful!" she called after Ron, Ginny, and Neville as they left the common room. Neville-_Neville,_ of all people-tossed her a rakish grin over his shoulder, before the portrait shut behind them.

She and Luna turned to one another. "Here-" Hermione spread the Map out, bending over it and pretending to scan the parchment for Snape's and Malfoy's dots. In reality, she was following the little trio of dots labeled with their friends' names as they descended a staircase and hurried down a corridor in the direction of the Room of Requirement. Once they were far enough away, she looked up and said, "Let's wait outside Snape's classroom, if Ron and all of them are waiting for Malfoy."

Luna gave a vague smile. "All right."

Hermione tried to smile back, and tucked the Map in her pocket.

"Here." Luna bent down and scooped something off the floor, then held it out. "You don't want to lose any of that potion. It takes ages to make."

Hermione took the stopper that Ron must have—_How lucky!_—dropped. "Thanks," she said. "Come on."

. . . . .

Severus felt as though his very skin were trying to peel itself away from his body. He could not stop moving, pacing restlessly from one end of his office to the other, then out to his classroom, where he walked between the desks, scrubbing at his arms and breathing through clenched teeth. Something was going to happen soon.

His pendant suddenly warmed against his chest. With a curse, he unbuttoned his frock coat and shirt and yanked the necklace out, putting the tip of his wand to it with a hand that shook badly. _Albus-_

It wasn't from Albus. For a moment, Severus could only stare numbly at Miss Granger's message before he recovered the presence of mind to re-clasp it about his neck and fasten his buttons. Potter and Albus gone from the castle? _Now,_ of all fucking times? He raked a hand through his hair, then let out an involuntary gasp as the Vow's magic sort of _twisted_ around him. He wanted to claw at himself-this was going to drive him mad. He resumed his pacing, losing all sense of time as he tried desperately to ignore the sensations skittering over his skin.

When Filius burst into his office, slamming the door against the wall with such force the reverberations could be felt all along the floor, he was frightened in the same primal way a child is frightened by sudden loud noises, his lungs squeezing in his chest.

"There are Death Eaters in the castle!" the small man gasped. "Severus, quick! The Astronomy Tower!"

Severus's heart leapt into his throat, threatening to choke him. This was it, and he wasn't ready, he couldn't do it. He wasn't prepared, he hadn't—

He hadn't said good-bye to Miss Granger. Why hadn't he taken the opportunity when she was standing before him not one hour earlier-

Ruthlessly, in the space of a second, he brought up his Shields, ridding himself instantly of emotion. He couldn't feel, or he would never be able to do it. He wouldn't survive, he wouldn't be able to help Potter. He would let himself die, if he allowed himself to feel right now.

Instead, he faced Filius and pointed his wand directly at the small man, Stunning him. Filius toppled forward, thankfully onto the rug that cushioned his office's hard, stone floors.

Without thinking further, Severus ran from his office and through his classroom. He threw open the door to the hallway, prepared to sprint all the way to Astronomy Tower.

He was brought up short by the sight of Hermione Granger and Luna Lovegood standing in his path. Miss Lovegood wore her customary dreamy expression; Miss Granger's eyes were fixed on him with terrifying intensity, in the wake of which Severus felt his Shields buckle and fall, though she had made no attempt to enter his mind.

"Go see to Professor Flitwick," he said, his voice strained. "He's had a shock. As I'm certain you just heard, there are Death Eaters in the school."

Miss Granger didn't move, appearing as frozen as Severus felt. In one hand, she clutched a bottle of something that was obscured by the curve of her fingers; in the other, she held a parchment across which black dots were moving-Potter's Map, no doubt, one of the few things Albus had seen fit to tell his spy about.. The lack of surprise on both girls' faces suddenly made sense; they must have known about the Death Eaters before he did.

Miss Lovegood glanced from Miss Granger to him, and back again, and said, "I'll see to him, then," in a tone that held no trace of alarm or hurry.

She vanished into his classroom, and Severus and Miss Granger continued to stare at each other as the seconds ticked by.

Finally, he wrenched his gaze from hers. "I must go," he said hoarsely.

She nodded. "Just—wait," she said then, and held up the vial. "Take it," she said urgently, stepping closer and pressing it into his hand.

Severus's fingers closed around it automatically, grazing hers in the process. He felt a jolt of connection move up his arm and down his spine. He glanced down to ascertain the bottle's contents, when suddenly he couldn't breathe, the Vow's magic crushing his chest, pulling so hard that he stumbled, catching himself with his free hand on the rough stone wall. He gasped, eyes watering, and without his conscious consent, his feet began carrying him away, following the Vow's horrible pull.

"I have to go," he panted. "I can't-"

Miss Granger caught him by the arm, then pulled away with a cry, no doubt feeling the throb of magic there. "Drink it-" she pleaded, motioning toward the bottle Severus still held. "Please-"

The Vow tugged again, and Severus thought he might truly die, then and there, if he did not start moving faster. "I'm sorry," he said, and then he was off, racing down the corridor, just barely outpacing the yanking of the Vow.

He saw no one until he reached the corridor that led to the Astronomy Tower, and then he heard the combatants before he actually saw them-heard their shouts and scented the characteristic charred smell of spells gone awry. He rounded the corner and checked momentarily at the tableau before him: Masked and robed Death Eaters battled with sorely outnumbered Order members and-to Severus's horror-a number of students. He saw Neville Longbottom duck the green flash that flew from one Death Eater's wand, and watched as Nymphadora Tonks dueled another.

Then the Vow pulled at him again, and his field of vision narrowed until all he could see was the staircase to the Tower, the barrier that shimmered there clearly designed to keep all but those branded by the Dark Lord out. Dashing out into the fray, he narrowly avoided collision with a falling body, which thudded, either Stunned or dead, to the floor behind him. But he couldn't pause, not even to ascertain whether the body belonged to an Order member or a Death Eater-he dashed toward the barrier, hearing voices from both sides calling out to him, each side obviously believing he was joining them. Lupin's sharp cry of, "Severus!" followed him up the steps and through the barrier, which rippled instantly into place again behind him.

Dumbledore lay sprawled against the ramparts, his face grey with pain. Draco, expression terrified, faced him with his wand drawn, his hand trembling as Bellatrix and the Carrow siblings looked on. Severus tightened his grip on his own wand. His other hand tightened unconsciously as well, and he glanced down to find with some surprise that he was still holding the small bottle Miss Granger had pressed upon him. In the darkness, it was difficult to tell for certain, but the scant mouthful of liquid at the bottom looked like melted gold. His heart stuttered. _Felix Felicis. . .?_ Surely not. . .

Alecto Carrow, her face contorted with disgust, snapped, "Draco, do it or stand aside so one of us-" ++

But her brother cut her off, spying Severus where he lingered just out of sight of the others, the Vow no longer painful but thrumming impatiently against his skin as a reminder that it had not yet been fulfilled.

"We've got a problem, Snape," Amycus said. "The boy doesn't seem able-" ++

Severus stepped forward, his entire body feeling stiff and unnatural. The

other Death Eaters watched him, and he could sense Bellatrix's distrust. But he kept his eyes fixed on Dumbledore, ignoring Draco entirely as the boy's eyes flicked desperately between his face and the fallen headmaster's.

Albus looked even older than his years, and weak-as weak as Severus's own father had looked years before when Severus went to see him for the last time as he lay dying in a Muggle hospital. Dumbledore's legs were splayed, his bright robes twisted. Off to the side, two brooms lay abandoned, and, returning his gaze to Dumbledore, Severus wondered vaguely where Potter was hiding.

"Severus," Albus whispered, reclaiming his attention. His voice was thin, and quavered on the last syllable. ++

_No,_ Severus thought. _No, no, no. . ._

The old wizard was struggling to right himself, getting his legs under him and leaning heavily on the railing. But when he looked at Severus, his gaze held nothing but steel.

"Severus," he said. "Please. . ." ++

Severus stared at him, all thought, all feeling, abruptly coalescing into a sharp, hot point under his ribs.

_Please._

Please—now. When it never was "please" before—not when Severus was a boy, being ordered to keep secret Lupin's lycanthropy. Not two years ago, when he was being told to return to the Dark Lord after Cedric Diggory's death. Not when he was given the impossible duty of informing Potter of the true nature of his destiny.

He reached into his pocket, his fingers curling around the little bottle nestled there. _Felix Felicis,_ the girl had given him—_him!_ His heart beat erratically against his ribcage.

Albus had not said "please," only weeks before, when he told Severus to distance himself from Miss Granger. From the one person who, mad though it seemed, cared for him enough to risk the disgust of her friends, the wrath of the Order, to devise a means of communication between them. To keep him safe.

He raised his wand and pointed it at Dumbledore. The vial of potion was heavy in his pocket, the pendant unnervingly warm against his chest. He could see in his mind's eyes Miss Granger's determined face, feel her fleeting touch against his cheek. His arm began to tremble; he couldn't do it. He _couldn't-_

Then, in an action that appeared to sap the last of his strength, Albus was in his mind, slipping easily past the Shields that had already fallen outside the Defense classroom. _Harry is here,_ he said, his voice echoing hollowly in Severus's mind. _Keep Lily's son safe._

Without conscious effort, Severus expelled him from his mind, fury roaring through his body, blood thundering in his ears. Lily's son-_Lily's fucking son_-when he had to send the boy to die, had to send Lily's child, Miss Granger's friend to fucking die-

Squeezing his eyes closed for the briefest of moments, Severus forced his Shields back into place, cutting off all thoughts of Lily and Miss Granger and leaving only his fury behind. He opened his eyes and looked at Dumbledore, who gazed back at him with maddening steadiness for a man about to die. As Severus twitched his wand, he had the sickening sense that he'd been manipulated, once again.

_"Avada Kedavra!"_ he cried.++

Albus's body looked very small as it was thrown back by the force of the spell, sailing over the railing and falling, with a horrible rush of white hair and beard and bright robes, toward the ground far below.

. . . . .

Curses flew-red, green, silver, bright flashes that bathed the corridor below the Astronomy Tower in a sickly glow, even as dozens of Death Eaters and Order members filled it with the groans, cries, and grunts of their dueling. Combatants from both sides were clearly tiring, and the air smelled of curses that had missed their mark. Of everyone, only Ron, Neville, and Ginny still seemed to be doing well, each moving with a strange fluidity, dodging spells with ease, their own hexes hitting home even when they looked like they shouldn't have been able to.

Hermione's luck had run out much earlier, even before she left Professor Flitwick with Luna in Snape's classroom. She'd felt its loss as she raced through the empty corridors toward the Astronomy Tower, the pleasant, tingling feeling of knowing just what to do fading until she was left with a lump of dread in her belly. Now, she was acutely aware that it was gone, as she dodged curses and shot off spells that she prayed weren't hitting anyone on the Order's side; it was difficult to see, as the smoke from spells gone wrong filled the air. She barely got a Shield Charm up in time to block a nasty hex sent her way, but before she could even attempt to counter it, an agonized scream set the small hairs all over her body on end. Panting, Hermione looked wildly about, and then bit back her own cry at the sight of Bill Weasley going down under Fenrir Greyback's attack, the werewolf biting, scratching, tearing at Bill's skin as though he were transformed and his blunt teeth were fangs, his dirty human nails, claws.

Then, suddenly, there was a commotion on the stairs to the Tower, and Snape was there, one hand clamped around Draco Malfoy's shoulder, the other gripping his wand. Draco looked ill and dangerously pale, but Snape marched forward, his step purposeful, his face blank, Shields obviously firmly in place. Three more Death Eaters came down after them, and then, abruptly, the fighting ceased as the other Death Eaters realized what was going on, and followed their brethren down the corridor, a faceless, hooded troupe. Bewildered, some of the Order members gave chase, and then, suddenly, Harry appeared, racing down the stairs, his expression more furious than Hermione had ever seen it. Ron and Ginny, crouched beside Bill on the other side of the corridor, called out to him, but Harry ignored them.

Hermione braced herself against the wall, her breathing unnaturally loud in her ears. She was aware, dimly, that her arm hurt, and she glanced down at it to find her skin marred by an angry red burn, the fabric of her sleeve tattered.

"Come on," Neville said, appearing beside her. "Let's get you to the hospital wing." The way he said it, a touch too loudly, made Hermione think perhaps he'd said the same thing more than once already, and she nodded dumbly, allowing him to lead her gently by her good arm, both of them following Bill Weasley, whose conjured stretcher floated eerily down the hall before them.

. . . . .

The pain in his shoulder was so intense that Severus had to use all his concentration to Apparate himself and Draco to Malfoy Manor. The moment their feet touched his home's perfectly manicured lawn, the boy dropped to his knees and emptied his stomach. When at last he was through, he continued to crouch, shoulders shaking with silent tears. Severus watched silently for several moments before reaching down to touch Draco's shoulder with his good arm.

"Stop, now," he said. "We have to make our report."

Draco gulped in a great breath of air and stood up. "I didn't-I don't-"

"Quiet." He jerked his head in the direction of the house. "Use your Shields."

Draco stood unsteadily. His face was drawn and clammy-looking, strands of pale hair falling messily into his eyes. He shoved them back, took a shaky breath, and after a moment, nodded.

Severus raised one brow, skeptical that the boy could have rid himself of emotion that quickly, but the blood running down his arm, soaking his sleeve, and the knowledge that the Dark Lord was waiting impatiently, made him start up the drive regardless, Draco trailing behind him.

They were met at the door by a house-elf, who looked disapprovingly at Severus's bloodstained sleeve. "Sir mustn't mess the carpet," the elf said.

Draco appeared to notice Severus's injury for the first time. "What happened?" he asked.

"Hagrid's hippogriff happened," Severus snapped, then grit his teeth. "Let's go."

The house-elf led them, glancing critically back at Severus every few steps, to the dining hall, where the Dark Lord liked to sit at the far end of the Malfoys' impressive table and hold court. Upon their entrance, the low muttering voices quieted and every head in the room swiveled to look at them.

Severus's breathing sounded labored, his bootsteps loud, as he made his way past the table, ignoring the stares of the other Death Eaters. He could sense Draco's hesitant presence just behind him, and from the corner of his eye, he saw Lucius put a hand on his wife's arm as though to prevent her from rising and going to their son, though both he and Narcissa watched Draco's progress with avid attention.

The Dark Lord waited until they had both made their bows before speaking.

"I have, of course, had the news of your triumph from your brethren, but I should like to hear it from your own lips." He inclined his head in Severus's direction. "Dumbledore is dead?"

Severus rose. "He is, My Lord."

"By your hand?"

"Yes, My Lord."

The Dark Lord's face broke into a hideous smile. "Let me in," he said, with sickening eagerness, and Severus scarcely had time to soften his Shields before the Dark Lord was inside his head, and Severus had to use every ounce of self-control he possessed not to shake uncontrollably as he allowed the Dark Lord to watch: _"Severus, please. . ."_ and Albus thrown from the Astronomy Tower.

The Dark Lord exited his mind with painful swiftness, looking pleased. "Better even than I imagined," he murmured. "You have pleased me, Severus."

He cut his eyes at Draco, who quailed visibly under their red gaze.

"Yes," he hissed. "You should be frightened, boy. You have displeased me greatly." He raised his wand, a curse no doubt ready upon that slit of a mouth.

Severus stepped forward. "My Lord-"

The Dark Lord glanced at him. "What is it?" he asked.

"It is only-there is still the matter of the Unbreakable Vow." Beside him, Severus could feel Draco's tension, could practically smell his fear. "Any harm comes to the boy, and. . ."

"And you are harmed as well, yes." The Dark Lord lowered his wand, looking thoughtful. "Well, we would not want that, now, would we?" He looked down the length of the table. "Bellatrix, Narcissa-your services are needed."

Severus did not dare turn around, but he heard the scraping back of two chairs and the approaching women's footsteps. Bellatrix bowed deeply before the Dark Lord, looking uncharacteristically solemn; Severus wondered whether she had been on the receiving end of the Dark Lord's displeasure, once she and others returned from Hogwarts and described what happened on the Tower. Narcissa, from what Severus could hear, appeared to be struggling against tears.

"My Lord," she pleaded. "My Lord, Draco is only a boy-"

"And one who failed to carry out my orders." The Dark Lord gestured for her and Severus to face one another. "Severus has no wish to be saddled with Draco's well-being for the rest of his life, and given your son's performance tonight, I think no one here can blame him." He nodded and sat back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Proceed."

Narcissa gulped in a sob, but reached out to take Severus's hand. He winced, pain from the hippogriff's bite shooting through his arm as he moved it. Bellatrix circled their two hands with her wand, muttering the incantation to break the bond she had cemented between them. Severus shivered, feeling a _lifting_ of sorts, as though the Vow's magic were actually being drawn from his flesh. Narcissa released his hand the moment the spell was lifted, her gaze accusatory.

"Excellent." The Dark Lord beckoned Draco forward, and Severus could hear the creaking of chairs as the Death Eaters around the table craned their heads to better watch what was about to happen, though none was foolish enough to speak unbidden.

"Kneel," the Dark Lord commanded, and Draco did, his face waxy with fear. Narcissa began weeping in earnest, and when Severus glanced over his shoulder, he saw Lucius, skin grey and slack, staring at the scene before him as though unable to comprehend what was about to happen.

"What shall it be?" the Dark Lord murmured, standing and walking with sinuous grace in front of the boy huddled before him. "A bit of _Cruciatus?_ For failing Lord Voldemort surely deserves more than a little pain, hmm?" A nasty, shudder-inducing smile, as he trailed the tip of his wand almost lovingly over Draco's pale hair, down the side of his downy cheek, and under his chin, using it to raise the boy's face so that Draco was forced to look directly into the Dark Lord's face. "Or shall I just show you exactly how to cast a proper Killing Curse, since you seem deficient in that area?"

Severus cleared his throat. "My Lord," he said. "If I may interject?"

The Dark Lord looked irritated, but nodded. "Indeed, Severus-what is it, now?"

"Forgive my interruption, My Lord. Clearly, Draco failed in the task you set him. However, I do not necessarily believe it follows that he lacks the will to do your bidding in the future."

"Meaning what, my spy?"

"My Lord, that I spent the better part of this past year trying to gain Draco's trust, but he was so desirous of fulfilling his duty that he refused me at every turn. I know the look I saw upon his face, for I have felt it often enough upon my own-he was proud, _honored_ that you had thought him worthy of such a difficult, important job." Never mind that the Dark Lord never once actually believed Draco would succeed. "His hesitation was merely that-a hesitation-and had the Unbreakable Vow not been pulling at me with such insistence, I might easily have allowed him a few more moments to. . . gather the necessary intent."

The Dark Lord gazed at him appraisingly. "And is this what you request in return for your faithful service? Young Mr. Malfoy's life? I confess I had something rather grander in mind. . ."

Severus was quite certain that, whatever the Dark Lord had in mind, he wanted none of it. "If it pleases My Lord," he said, striving for a tone of utmost humility.

"Very well." A wave of one long, white hand in Draco's direction. "Get out of my sight, Mr. Malfoy. And your parents, as well."

Draco stumbled as he rose, and hurried from the dining hall to the jeers of the men and women sitting around the table. Lucius rose with impeccable grace, though he looked liable to collapse at any moment; he waited until Narcissa, after casting one long, grateful look in Severus's direction, took his arm, before they began their stately walk from the room.

Severus was wise enough not to assume he was dismissed, as well, and waited until the Dark Lord returned his attention to him. "I do believe I shall still give you your other reward, my friend," he said.

Severus bowed his head. "The service was reward in itself, My Lord," he murmured.

The Dark Lord chuckled. "I've no doubt it was. It must be such a relief, to know you are no longer subject to Albus Dumbledore's demands."

Severus chuckled as well, though his throat burned with it. The wound on his shoulder throbbed with every breath he took. The moment he took his Shields down entirely, he felt he would begin weeping, and be unable to stop. "Indeed, My Lord."

The other wizard turned so he was addressing the other Death Eaters as well. "With Dumbledore gone, I have no doubt Hogwarts shall be mine before the next term begins. As such, the school will be in need of new leadership."

He waited until the murmurs from around the table died down, and then turned his terrible smile upon Severus.

"Who better," the Dark Lord said, "to take the headmaster's office than the man who conquered its previous occupant?"

. . . . .

Hermione's burn was easily healed, and she was sitting with the Weasleys and other Order members, anxiously watching Madam Pomfrey tend to Bill's wounds, when Harry appeared, with Ginny at his side. The redhead's face was white and shocked; Harry's was hard, and frightening.

"Dumbledore might know something that'd work, though," Ron was saying, talking over Madam Pomfrey, who kept shaking her head, talking about cursed wounds. "Where is he? Bill fought those maniacs on Dumbledore's orders, Dumbledore owes him, he can't leave him in this state-" ++

Ginny's voice cut across the room, high and carrying. "Ron-Dumbledore's dead." ++

There was stunned silence, every single person in the room staring at Ginny with varying expressions of horror. Hermione's blood roared in her ears. _Dumbledore. . .?_ How could it be possible? She'd known it was coming, but so soon-it couldn't have been the curse, could it?

"How did it happen?" Tonks whispered. ++

"Snape did it," Harry said, his voice mercilessly hard. "The _Avada Kedavra."_ ++

_No._ Hermione staggered, catching herself against the wall. Her lungs felt drained of all air, and she stared wildly at Harry. _No. . _.

She scarcely heard the others' conversation above the pounding of her own heart, her brain scrabbling for purchase when Harry asked her what happened when she and Luna stood watch outside Snape's classroom.

"I was so stupid Harry!" she said, and her voice sounded high and frantic. "I didn't realize, Harry, I didn't realize, I just let Snape go!" ++

Lupin broke in. "It's not your fault," he said. "Hermione, had you not obeyed Snape and got out of the way, he probably would have killed you and Luna." ++

_No, he wouldn't,_ Hermione thought fiercely, and then she covered her face with her hands, because Snape was the Occlumens who fooled Dumbledore, Voldemort, or both. She'd have to be mad to think he hadn't fooled her.

. . . . .

Much later, Hermione sat in the common room with Harry, thoroughly wrung-out and staring silently into the dying fire. Everyone else had long since gone to bed, and Ron and Ginny were staying in the hospital wing with their parents, brothers, and Fleur, who had refused to leave Bill's side. Hermione gave an involuntary shudder remembering the once-handsome man's ravaged face, gnawed to bits as though he were nothing more than meat.

Harry glanced at her, but she shook her head. "Just-Bill," she whispered, and he nodded his understanding, though she knew he didn't understand, not really. Not when it _wasn't_ only Bill she was thinking about. She hugged her torso, wondering where Snape was, if he was okay, and then blinked rapidly against sudden tears at the thought that she _shouldn't_ care, he'd _lied_ to her-

"I can't believe Greyback did that while he was still human," Harry said, clenching and unclenching his hands where they rested on his knees. His breathing grew harsher. "I can't believe-_Snape_-I'm going to kill him. I'm going to fucking kill him."

Hermione looked away, her throat closing, and blinked rapidly against the sting of yet more tears. Snape's "I'm sorry" just before he left for the Astronomy Tower had taken on a whole slew of potential new meanings, each more sickening than the last, but then, why should he apologize for what he was about to do if he was truly a loyal Death Eater? But why else could he. . . _How_ else could he. . .

Snape's voice came back to her then. _"There are things between the headmaster and myself, which you cannot know about that also indirectly led to my making the Vow."_

"I don't know what to think," she whispered.

It was exactly the wrong thing to say. "Well, I do," Harry said. He stood up and began pacing, his entire body practically vibrating with nervous energy.

"How can you even-_he killed Dumbledore!_ While I watched! Bloody hell, Hermione-"

She stood as well, reaching out to touch Harry's shoulder. He shrugged her off, walking a few paces away and standing with his back turned to her.

Hermione bit her lip, knowing that if she so much as breathed her doubts,

he'd shut down and refuse to talk to her at all.

"I don't doubt you," she said slowly. "But it's just. . . I thought I knew him."

Harry whirled around, eyebrows raised.

"Sort of, at least," Hermione hurried to say, though the words felt both dishonest and strangely, considering the circumstances, disloyal.

Harry's expression softened, barely. "Well, he fooled Dumbledore. Guess I can't get too angry with you."

"May I see what happened?" she blurted.

He blanched. "No, Hermione. I'm not up to it-"

"You wouldn't need to do anything," she said quickly. "You don't need to try to block me or anything, since that would defeat the purpose. Just think about what happened once you reached the Astronomy Tower-I promise not to root about-"

He didn't respond, just ran a hand through his already-messy hair.

"Please, Harry?"

After a long, agonizing moment, he nodded. "Fine. If only so you believe me."

"I do believe-"

He cut her off with a wave of his hand that was remarkably Snape-like in its impatience. "Just do it, if you're going to. Please."

"Okay." She sat on the bench beside the fireplace, and gestured for him to join her. He did, perching warily at the very edge.

"Tell me when you've got what happened fixed in your mind," she said, not wanting to anger him further by accidentally entering some unrelated thought. Harry nodded tensely, and she raised her wand. _"Legilimens."_

As before, Hermione was assaulted by the foreignness of Harry's mind, but without him actively trying to fight her Legilimency, it was easier to ignore. She pushed gently past persistent images of Harry and Dumbledore in some dark, stony place, Dumbledore ill and _crying_ as Harry tipped something into his mouth from the goblet he held. Then they were on the Tower, and Dumbledore Petrified Harry, and then Death Eaters were there and Draco, looking younger and more terrified than Hermione had ever seen him, had disarmed the Headmaster, and then Snape was there, and she felt she couldn't breathe.

Snape's face was set and stony, and after flicking his gaze briefly over the Tower, he had eyes only for Dumbledore. Hermione watched something twitch in his express when Dumbledore whispered, _"Severus, please,"_ something that looked like pain, but then suddenly Snape's low, thrumming voice was crying out that horrible incantation, and then Dumbledore's body was tossed by the younger man's magic over the edge of the railing.

Hermione pushed forward again and watched Memory-Harry racing after Snape, driven by rage and adrenaline, past Hagrid's hut, which was-oh, no, it was in flames, smoke billowing from the thatched roof. Harry was shooting spell after spell at Snape, who deflected them easily, pausing only to order Draco to run.

_"Fight back!"_ Memory-Harry screamed. _"Fight back, you cowardly-" ++_

Snape's blank expression twisted bitterly; Hermione realized she was watching his Shields crack. _"Coward, did you call me, Potter?"_ he shouted. _"Your father would never attack me unless it was four on one, what would you call him, I wonder?" ++_

He parried Harry's next spell with ease, and then Hermione watched, astonished, as he taunted Harry about keeping his "mouth shut and his mind closed." _He's. . . teaching him,_ she thought, and then her heart clenched as Memory-Harry went down under another Death Eater's _Cruciatus._ ++

But Snape stopped it-he stopped the torture-and Hermione's brain struggled to grasp the implications of what she was seeing even as she watched Harry surge to his feet, shouting out the beginnings of _Sectumsempra._

Snape blocked that spell, and the next, his mask cracking further. _"You dare use my own spells against me, Potter? It was I who invented them-I, the Half-Blood Prince! And you'd turn my inventions on me like your filthy father, would you? I don't think so-"_ Hermione had no time to process this, for Memory-Harry made a dive for his wand, and Snape shouted, _"No!"_ ++

Memory-Harry stood, breathing heavily, as composed as Hermione had ever seen him. _"Kill me, then. Kill me like you killed them, you coward-"_ he said, but Snape cut him off, the last of his composure gone, leaving him raw and exposed, his face wild, frightening, and so filled with pain it cut at Hermione's insides to see it.

_"Don't call me coward!"_ he screamed. ++

Without meaning to, Hermione slipped out of Harry's mind, her breath coming short. She turned away from her friend and stared blindly into space, seeing instead Snape's expression. "Oh, my God," she whispered.

"Hermione?"

He hadn't wanted to kill Dumbledore. Hermione was more certain of this than she'd been of anything in her entire life. She thought of the force of the Vow on his skin when she touched him-she thought of what Harry overheard, that their professor had Vowed to protect and help Draco.

_Dumbledore knew about the Vow,_ she thought, and though logic told her Snape could easily had been lying to her about that, instinct screamed that he had not. She thought of the dark man vomiting on the floor of his own office; she thought of his agonized _"I'm sorry,"_ as he dashed down the corridor toward the Astronomy Tower. She saw again the grief, the almost physical pain that twisted his features as he roared at Harry, and heard his taunting voice trying, whether consciously or not, to give Harry one last lesson in self-control.

"Hermione!" Harry sounded angry now.

She turned, reluctantly, to face him, trying to school her features. "Sorry," she said, twisting her fingers together.

Harry looked ready to throttle her. "So?"

"I-" Hermione caught herself. "That was awful," she said finally. "I-I'm so sorry, Harry."

It was the right thing to say. Harry's expression softened, his irritation dissipating. "Yeah, well," he mumbled, and then his eyes widened in surprise when Hermione choked on a sob and threw herself at him. Harry's arms came around her tentatively, and she clung to him, pressing her face against his shoulder.

"I don't know what to do without him," Harry said after an awkward moment.

"No," Hermione whispered, drawing back from him and rubbing her hand over her damp face. She felt hollow, scooped out until she was entirely empty. "No, I don't either."

. . . . .

_A/N: Any paragraphs ending in "++" contain dialogue from HBP. And a great big thank-you to my beta, IvyAmelia!_


	18. Take your lovers on the road with you

_Disclaimer: Not mine, all JKR's_

_. . . . ._

Hermione sat in the darkness on a stone bench in her parents' back garden, staring blindly out over the tangle of her father's rose bushes. In the moonlight, they were bleached of all distinguishing colors, each one some variation of grey or silver. Her father had spent years coaxing those roses into this contained riot of leaves and blowzy, nodding blossoms. Now what would happen to them? Hermione wondered, and began to cry.

In the bedroom upstairs, her parents were asleep. When they awoke in the morning, they would take the bags Hermione had packed and set by the front door, the passports she'd put on top of the bags, and the boarding passes she'd printed out, and hail a taxi to Heathrow in time to board their 12:40 p.m. flight to Melbourne. The passports and tickets bore their new names: Wendell and Monica Wilkins, Monica after her mother's mother and Wendell after the boy in the book about Apparition Snape had lent her. The boy had learned how to disappear; Hermione needed her parents to do the same.

Curled into herself like a shrimp, Hermione rocked back and forth, pressing her fists against her mouth to muffle her sobs so the neighbors wouldn't hear. After a long time, her sobs began to ease, and she took a few gasping, shuddering breaths. She needed to leave, and soon, but her body felt too heavy for movement. The Weasleys would no doubt welcome her to the Burrow early, but the thought of _pretending_ in front of all them made her feel exhausted. She couldn't tell them the truth of what she'd done, couldn't face the horror of their expressions, or, perhaps worse, the sadness, the sympathy, while they talked about her behind her back.

Tears threatened again, but Hermione blinked hard until they disappeared. _Mistake, mistake, mistake,_ her mind muttered. _Stupid, reckless, Gryffindor mistake._ Her mind sounded very much like Snape.

Snape. Hermione pulled her necklace out from under her T-shirt to look at her pendant; hanging from the chain as well, now, was a small vial charmed to be Unbreakable, filled with the silvery contents of her parents' memories.

Snape's message was still there, stark against the cream of the notebook's parchment: _Make your parents safe as quickly as possible._ Feeling her pendant warm for the first time since Dumbledore's death, Hermione had felt a jolt of elation, followed quickly by fear. At one of several hasty Order meetings over the course of the summer, it had been determined that the pendants were no longer a safe means of communication, and everyone, so far as Hermione knew, had abandoned them except her. Any message she received, therefore, had to be from Snape, and it wasn't until he got in touch with her that she realized how clenched-up she'd been these last weeks, how she'd been longing, with a desperation she wouldn't admit to consciously, to see him, be near him, talk to him.

She stared down at the notebook. She ought to tell him she'd heeded his warning, though she wouldn't mention that after the first shot of relief at hearing from him, at having some reason to believe that he was all right, and then the blinding panic when she read the contents of his message, she'd felt a brief, shameful hesitation to trust its implications. All she had to go on, after all, regarding Snape's true loyalties, were logic and her own instincts, and some days during the long, unusually hot summer weeks since she'd been home, the logic that told Hermione that Snape was on the side of the Order seemed flimsy at best.

And yet.

She swallowed down another sob and pressed her wand-tip to the notebook, whispering, "Thank you for the warning."

She didn't know whether or not to expect a reply. Snape could be anywhere-with Voldemort, even. Still, Hermione found that she was holding herself very tensely, and when his response appeared on the parchment mere seconds after she sent hers, she couldn't stop the small smile that spread across her face.

_You secured them, then?_

Hermione touched the page with her wand and opened her mouth to tell him what she'd done, the words burbling forth like a confession. But she stopped them at the last second, uncertainty making her lightheaded. Snape had been very vague in his warning, not committing any details to parchment. . .

"I took care of them," she said after a moment, and watched the words bloom across the page, and disappear.

A beat, and then he asked, in an apparent non-sequitur, _What did you give me the last time we saw each other?_

Nonplussed, Hermione blinked. And then-_Oh, stupid, stupid!_-she realized he was asking her a security question, of the same type the Order had taken to using to ensure the person they were speaking with wasn't Polyjuiced. The same sort she should have asked him when she got his message earlier that evening, except that the message had been so very Snape, so cryptic, careful to give away nothing of her plans to ward her parents' home. It had never occurred to her to wonder whether someone else had somehow gotten ahold of his pendant, had overpowered him or Stunned him or hurt him. . .

"Lucky potion," she choked out. "It's me, you prat." And then, a second later when he hadn't immediately responded, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. I mean, I did, but. . . I didn't."

Still, he said nothing, and Hermione felt her breathing grow increasingly frantic. "I wish I could talk to you. Really talk, I mean." Her fingers clenched around the stem of her wand, and she blurted, without really meaning to, "I want to see you you. I need to see you. Where are you?"

_That_ got a response: _It would be imprudent to meet._

Hermione glanced up at her parents' dark bedroom window and swiped at the tears rolling, once again, down her cheeks.

"I know," she whispered.

A longer pause, and Hermione found herself holding her breath. _Please,_ she thought. _Please._ She couldn't articulate why she wanted to see him so badly, to be near him, but she did, with a longing that was almost physical in its intensity. Part of it, she knew, was because of the enormity of what she'd done, and the fact that it was prompted, in part, by his sudden communication. But that wasn't entirely fair, really; she'd been planning on doing something to ensure her parents' safety for weeks-Snape's message had just encouraged more immediate, and drastic, action. She wanted to see him-had thought about him constantly all summer. And she wanted him to tell her she had done the right thing.

His reply caught her by surprise. _I am at Headquarters,_ he said.

"Headquarters?" she asked, and added, "The-the one we both knew?", not knowing how better to differentiate between Grimmauld Place and the Order's new meeting place, which alternated between Lupin and Tonks' cramped little house and Dedalus Diggle's cottage.

_Yes._ And then: _Enter through the kitchen door. If you are not here within a quarter hour, I am leaving._

. . . . .

After weeks spent in the opulence of Malfoy Manor, Grimmauld Place seemed even more oppressively dark and dreary than Severus remembered. He sat at the scarred wooden kitchen table, scene of more Order meetings than he could recall, and gazed down into his mug of tea. He craved something stronger, but had not wanted to risk growing inebriated as he awaited Miss Granger's response to his message. Assuming she did respond, which, as the hours passed, began to seem more and more unlikely; and Severus himself more of a fool.

Across from him was the seat Black used to take when he was still alive, the better to snipe and snarl at Severus, who generally sat where he was now, chair scooted back until it was nearly in shadow. Albus, of course, had been at the head of the table, by turns the steely commander and the genial grandfather, whose blue eyes appeared to miss nothing that went on around him.

Albus, whose spectre had greeted Severus when he breached the old headquarters' front door, Alastor Moody's voice booming through the entryway and his curse causing Severus's tongue to curl back toward his throat, gagging him. The spectre-Dumbledore that had advanced upon him, its eyes burning with a fury that threatened to stop Severus's heart in his chest, was a variation on a jinx Severus recognized, and thus knew how to counter; but for a moment, he could do nothing but stand, rooted and horrified and choking for air, a half-formed, "No!" on his tongue. He'd slashed with his wand in the complicated movements required by the counter-jinx, though in his panic his movements felt so erratic he was later amazed he'd managed to counter the spell at all, and afterwards fell to his knees, shaking with a violence that frightened him. For just a moment, he had been horribly, irrationally certain that Dumbledore hadn't meant for Severus to kill him at all.

After that, he bloody well deserved a drink. But tea would have to do for now.

That morning, Draco had entered Severus' suite of rooms and said without preamble, "They're going out. Tomorrow or the next night, to start; probably for a few nights after that."

Severus, who had been sitting in an armchair staring rather blankly into space before the younger man interrupted him, had looked up in irritation. "Proper nouns, Draco, are helpful if one wishes one's audience to understand the specifics of what one is saying."

Draco's mouth tightened. "Yaxley. Nott. Crabbe. Goyle. Dolohov." He looked away, giving every impression of gazing intently at a painted landscape that hung above the fireplace; but his fingers were clenched into fists at his sides. "Greyback and some of his followers; I don't know how many. Some initiates who haven't been Marked, I think. They're going on raids on Muggle homes."

Severus felt every nerve in his body sing to life. "There was a meeting?"

"Just finished." Draco swallowed, not meeting his eyes.

"Ah." Severus studied him warily, for Draco had shown no more inclination to confide in him over the last weeks when they had both been ensconced with the Dark Lord at Malfoy Manor, than he had at Hogwarts. Although. . . Severus closed his eyes briefly against the memory of what had happened several nights prior-that foolish, _stupid_ Burbage woman turning above his head, begging for _his_ help when there wasn't a damn thing he could do, and then the solid thump of her body against the Malfoys' dining table when she fell. Severus had felt, just for a moment, his defenses slip as her lifeless eyes gazed up at him with such accusation, grief and guilt and rage searing through him-and when he'd looked up, Draco was staring at him, the horror in his eyes utterly unhidden until Severus snapped his own Shields firmly into place, at which point Draco dropped his eyes for a moment, looking up again only when he had his own Occlumency under control.

"I thought you might like to know," Draco said in a rush. When Severus merely raised one eyebrow, he added, "I know you aren't required to attend most meetings-"

"The Dark Lord has other tasks for me," Severus said quellingly, his stomach flipping slightly as he wondered where, exactly, this was going. "He desires that I concentrate on. . . _reforming_. . . Hogwarts' curriculum for the coming term." It was an effort to keep the distaste from his voice and expression, though the Dark Lord's emphasis on the importance of, as he'd said to Severus one evening, "Retraining wizards and witches to think properly-to be proud of their heritage and live up to its promised glory," did allow his spy to avoid some of the least savory aspects of Death Eater life. Such as attending raids.

"I know that." Draco threw himself into the chair opposite without waiting for an invitation. Well, it was his house, Severus supposed, suppressing his annoyance in favor of obtaining information. He leaned forward, peering into the younger man's face. Draco met his eyes for only the briefest of seconds, and then flicked his gaze away.

"If you know that," Severus said, "why are you here?"

Draco crossed his arms, looking for a moment like a miserable little boy. "I-never mind. This is stupid."

He moved as if to get up, but Severus forestalled him, the familiar feeling of being balanced precariously on a tightrope making him tense.

"The Dark Lord's activities can be. . . disconcerting. . . to the uninitiated," Severus said carefully.

"It's not-" Draco cut himself off, closing his fingers so tightly around the fine cloth of his sleeves that his knuckles grew white. When he spoke again, it was to the ornately carved mantlepiece. "A lot of my classmates' families are on the list," he said. "A lot of. . . Well, you taught them, too. I just. . ."

_Miss Granger,_ Severus thought, a sudden terror seizing him. If Hogwarts students and their families were being targeted, it seemed only logical that the Muggle-born close friend of Harry Potter would top the list.

He looked at Draco then, and the helpless pleading in Draco's eyes was enough to make Severus' breakfast attempt a rebellion, his stomach clenching. He recognized that look-_Make it stop, this isn't what I wanted, I didn't know. Tell me I'm not alone in feeling like this. Make it stop, make it stop, stop, stop. . ._

And yet. . . Swallowing hard, Severus knew, with a sickening sort of regret, that he ought not trust either Draco's Occlumency or the boy's ability to withstand threats against his family, though it was clear from his presence here that the boy already suspected Severus of disloyalty to the Dark Lord. "I appreciate your telling me," he said, sweeping to his feet and indicating that Draco should rise, as well. He led the way to the door. "Information is always useful, and you are correct; I have been rather too caught up in Hogwarts' business of late to participate fully in our Master's other plans."

He had opened the door, and nodded at the corridor. "Unfortunately, I do have some business that must be attended to."

"Right." The look on Draco's face as he passed was despairing, and for an instant, Severus was nearly tempted to give himself away by putting his hand on the younger man's shoulder. He balled his hands into fists at his sides.

At the last moment, however, before the door closed behind his former student, Severus had found himself saying, "If ever you desire company, Draco, you're welcome to seek me out."

He had cursed himself as Draco sent him a startled look, but the door swung shut before he could say anything else, and he was left staring at it, his heart beating erratically as he tried to think what to do.

He had known he should not contact Miss Granger. It was dangerous, and foolish, and he'd kept the promise to himself all summer that he _would not_ use the bloody pendants. He began to pace, forcing his eyes closed when the girl's image rose before him, her face terrified and earnest, her warm hand pressing into his own the small bottle of golden liquid he now carried with him everywhere. He paused in his pacing, bracing his hands against the back of one chair, head bowed.

_Fuck. Buggering_ fucking _fuck._

Before he could change his mind, he had yanked his Order pendant out, enlarging it and touching his wand to a blank page.

_Make your parents safe as quickly as possible,_ he sent, and then spent several minutes staring at the notebook, awaiting a reply that didn't come, his heart beating more emphatically with each second that passed.

Finally, feeling so frantic that he realized he ought not be anywhere near the Dark Lord if at all possible, he left the Manor, his purposeful strides and grim expression deterring anyone who happened to see him from questioning where he was headed. Once he'd got through the gates, past gardens full of elegantly-pruned flowers where Lucius' peacocks burbled as they pecked at the lawn, Severus hesitated for only a moment before Apparating away, reappearing moments later on the front steps of Number 12, Grimmauld Place. His skin felt clammy as he faced the door to the one-time Order headquarters, but his own home was almost certainly being watched by the Aurors, and there were precious few other places where he could wait, unseen by either followers of the Dark Lord or members of the general wizarding population, for the girl to answer him.

His hand clasped the doorknob, and then he was inside.

. . . . .

The longer Severus sat in the gloom of Grimmauld Place's kitchen, the more apprehensive he grew. _Why_ hadn't Miss Granger responded? Visions of his fellow Death Eaters mounting an attack earlier than Draco had said they might-of the girl and her parents tortured and killed, their bodies mutilated-pressed against the backs of his eyes until Severus had to push at his sockets with his palms as though to forcibly hold the images at bay.

More likely, she simply no longer trusted him. Which had, he thought, his mouth twisting bitterly, had been the point of it all. It seemed highly improbable, the more he thought about it, that any of the Order members had retained their pendants after his betrayal; and why should Miss Granger be any different? Why should he hope-

He remembered her fierce expression as she argued him into allowing her to link their necklaces, the pads of her fingers against his mouth, her impossible hair in his face as she clung to him. Severus tightened his grip on his mug, gritting his teeth. He'd had that-for a brief time, he'd had someone who cared about him as much as she cared about her friends. Who didn't recoil from him, but actually sought his company. The memory of her brief touches still left him with a physical ache deep inside, after all these weeks, and he'd turned to it more often than he cared to admit since he'd rejoined the Dark Lord.

Like an affection-starved Crup, he thought, disgusted.

A sense of hopelessness seemed to fold itself over him as the candles burnt and stuttered in their sconces and the light just peeking around the heavy, drawn curtains waned.

He was nearly asleep, chin drooping against his chest, when his pendant finally began to burn, many hours after he sent his message. Startled upright, Severus fumbled for his pendant, mouth dry. The surge of relief he felt when he read her message was so overwhelming that his entire body went limp.

"You secured them, then?" he rasped, thankful, in that moment, that she couldn't actually see him as they communicated. His wand was trembling against the notebook.

_I took care of them,_ she responded, and Severus' body immediately grew tense once more at her uncharacteristically cryptic response. For a moment, he could do nothing but envision her dead on the floor of her parents' home, the pendant torn from around her neck and someone-Dolohov or Greyback, perhaps-communicating with it in her stead. Breathing deeply through his nose, he tried to calm himself-_Ask her something only she would know_-and curled one hand instinctively around the little bottle of Felix Felicis in his pocket, which had become something of a talisman to him over the course of the summer.

"What did you give me the last time we saw each other?" he asked urgently, and then nearly laughed aloud with relief and amusement and a sort of warm, alien joy that anyone-that _she_-could have the temerity to speak to him so after everything that had happened. And the tone of her reply, even more so than her correct response to his question, instantly put to rest any fears that it was not, in fact, Miss Granger on the receiving end of his messages. No one else could babble like that.

When she finally asked if they could meet, Severus knew, even as he equivocated, that he was going to give in.

_Enter through the kitchen door,_ he sent, and then sat back, hands balled into fists in his lap. Though she would no doubt find the instruction odd, Miss Granger would be far more comfortable were she not subjected to Moody's curse-even taking into account that Order members generally avoided arriving by the back entrance, as Grimmauld Place's backyard was a tangled mess of plants, many of which were magical and inclined to bite, burn, or strangle intruders.

Visions of her arriving with Shacklebolt in tow, an arrest warrant clutched in his fist, flashed before Severus' eyes. He compressed his lips, added, "If you are not here within a quarter hour, I am leaving," and settled back to wait.

Minutes later, the door to the kitchen opened suddenly, and Severus jerked his head up as Miss Granger burst into the room.

"Bloody _plants!"_ she said, slamming the door in the face of a particularly nasty Venomous Tentacula.

Severus watched her from his place at the table, his mouth oddly dry. Her hair was wild, her Muggle clothing mussed, the knees of her jeans darkened by what looked like grass stains. From one wrist, a handbag covered in delicate beadwork hung, and in the other hand, she clutched the handle of a pet carrier in which a ball of orange fur was hissing.

She looked dreadful. She looked. . . Severus' fingers tightened further around his mug.

Catching her breath, Miss Granger set the cage down by her feet, wiping her hands on her jeans. "Hang on, Crookshanks," she murmured. "I should be able to let you out as soon as I've found Profes-"

Severus cleared his throat, and the girl looked up, startled. He raised one brow, though his heart was suddenly pounding. "You haven't far to look, Miss Granger," he said.

. . . . .

Hermione's head jerked up at the sound of Snape's voice, her heart thudding wildly, though when her eyes met his, it seemed, for a moment, to stop beating altogether.

_Oh,_ she thought incoherently. Snape appeared, at first glance, much the same as he ever had, but the way he watched her was guarded and somehow insecure. He looked as though he was barely breathing, gazing at Hermione with an intensity that made her shiver. Her eyes mapped the fall of his hair and the hunch of his shoulders with a hunger that startled her, and she longed to reach out and touch his skin and his coat's rough wool. God, she'd missed him, she realized, in a way that was unexpected and thrilling and utterly mortifying. In a way she hadn't missed either of the boys, not even Ron.

_Say something,_ she thought desperately as the moment stretched taut between them. Snape's lips were uncompromisingly closed, forming a thin, hard line, at odds with the strange, fiery glitter of his eyes, and her own tongue felt thick and clumsy in her mouth.

"I didn't see you there," she forced out.

"Obviously," Snape said, his voice less dry than strained.

As if the sound of his voice had broken some spell, Hermione managed to unfreeze her limbs and take a step forward, ignoring, for the moment, Crookshanks' unhappy meow.

"How. . . How are you?" she asked.

Snape shifted. "Don't ask asinine questions."

She shook her head, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "I don't think it's asinine. I don't know where you've been. I don't know what you've been doing, or if you've been safe-"

He stared at her. "I am accountable to you, then?" he said.

"No-of course not." Hermione flushed. "I didn't know if I'd ever see you again," she said finally, twisting her fingers in the strings of her beaded handbag. "I wanted. . . I've wanted to contact you so many times, but I didn't know where you were. . . I didn't want to. . . cause you more trouble."

"Cause me. . .?" He stared at her, then barked a mirthless laugh. "Miss Granger-do you not. . ." He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I expected a torrent of accusations," he said. "Or questions, at the least." His gaze dropped, briefly, to the tabletop. "I was. . . surprised you heeded my message at all."

He looked at her again, and she read the truth in his eyes: He must have thought there was a good chance that when she arrived at Grimmauld Place, it would be with several Aurors and half the Order in tow. Part of her was astonished and touched that he agreed to meet at all, but another, more practical part knew he must have had an escape route already planned.

"I suppose I do have questions," Hermione said. "But they're not-well, some are very important, but I don't know if it's safe for you to answer them. The others. . . Well, I figured it out for myself not long after you. . . left."

"Did you?"

"Yes. I. . . I looked at Harry's memories."

Snape's face suffused a deep red; Hermione wondered, briefly, which part of that horrible night he was remembering. "Then you know I killed the Headmaster," he said.

"I-yes." She crossed her arms. "Everyone knows that."

"And yet there is a difference between hearing about something and seeing it yourself."

"Of course."

"And yet-here you are." The color had receded from Snape's face, leaving it pale and waxy in the flickering candlelight. "I thought you had more sense." His mouth twisted up in a sneer. "Or so your other teachers always claimed."

"Give over!" Hermione snapped, suddenly furious as all the anger and resentment she had been trying to quell throughout the summer boiled over. Why had he not confided in her? And yet-how could she, in all fairness, truly fault him for it? She took an aggressive step closer to him, slamming her hands against the tabletop and bringing her face level with his. Snape's dark eyes flickered with surprise.

"I believed in you _because_ I saw Harry's memory!" she said. His face immediately took on the closed-off look so familiar to her, and which she hated so very much, and Hermione mentally kicked herself, knowing how he must have taken her pronouncement.

"And even before that," she added hurriedly, "I asked him to show me because I thought I knew who you are-who you _really_ are, fundamentally-and so Harry's story didn't add up." She glanced down at Snape's lap, where his hands were clutched together.

"You must have felt so lonely," she whispered then; for whenever she wasn't angry with him, she'd spent the past weeks imagining him-wherever he was-without, as far as she knew, anyone to talk to. No Dumbledore. No. . . _her,_ though the thought felt rather conceited.

"God, that sounds so trite," she muttered. "I just. . ." She looked up; Snape was perfectly still, as if she might vanish if he moved at all. "I'm so sorry."

"What can you imagine you have to apologize for?" he asked.

"I don't know. I just-I feel I should have figured it all out so much sooner. Before-before it was over."

"It's not 'over,' girl," Snape murmured, but Hermione could detect no true ire behind the words.

"I know, that's not what I meant. I meant. . . I wish I'd known, if only so you didn't have to be completely alone in the knowledge of what was to come." She clenched her fingers, nails digging into the wood of the table. "Everyone's talking about how this affects Harry," she said, "and God knows, he's torn apart and floundering. But he has _us."_ She thumped one hand against her breastbone. "He has Ron and me, and all the rest of the Weasleys, and the Order, and-and _Hedwig_ for Heaven's sake-" she choked on a sudden sob, overcome by a fresh wave of fear and grief, "-not to mention _you,_ and even though he knows he might have to die, you knew that too, and you had _no one,_ and I'm so, so sorry-"

She pressed her fists against her mouth to hold back the dreadful, choked sounds trying to emerge, no longer certain who she was apologizing to, shades of her parents' faces, still against their pillows, overlapping Snape's solid, lined countenance before her eyes. She looked down, striving for some self-control.

"Miss Granger," Snape said, her name sounding horribly raw. But he didn't continue, and Hermione looked at him again, struck by the sudden, unusual openness of his expression. He looked. . . helpless. As if there was something he wanted to say, but couldn't articulate. His dark eyes bored into hers, and Hermione sensed that, did she wish to, she could perform Legilimency on him effortlessly.

His hands were still gripping each other tightly as if to prevent themselves from reaching for her. Hermione felt something warm uncoil within her belly; he was only inches from her where she was still bent over the table, and she could smell him and feel his breath against her cheeks, and when she looked at his pale face, framed by the straggling wings of his hair, it was so impossibly dear that on impulse she leaned forward and touched her lips to his.

. . . . .

Severus couldn't move, shock holding his muscles tense, his eyes wide with disbelief. Miss Granger's own eyes were closed, lashes sweeping her cheeks, her heavy brows pulled slightly down as if in concentration. Her mouth-_her mouth, pressed to his!_-was somehow soft and firm at once, and she wasn't moving it, but the sensation still sent a tumbling, out-of-control feeling through Severus' chest and stomach. He was dimly aware that in such a situation there were certain expectations and he was not living up to a single one of them-did she want him to touch her? To press back against her mouth? -but it was all he could do to hold his body steady, to keep it from shaking and shattering into a thousand pieces. To _breathe._ He had no experience with kissing beyond the brief, passionless couplings of his youth, and this was so different from those encounters-this was being kissed, her warm mouth and _"I believed in you."_

After far too short a time-it could not have been more than a few seconds, really-Miss Granger was the one to pull away, leaving Severus feeling out of breath but unfulfilled, his mind a jumble of half-formed thoughts. _Why did she. . . ? What should he have. . . ?_

Straightening, Miss Granger seemed to be avoiding his gaze, her cheeks splotched with red. Staring at her, Severus had the distinct impression that she was horrified by what she'd just done, and he raised his fingertips to his mouth for just a moment before letting his hand drop, heat suffusing his own face.

"Miss Granger," he said, striving for something of his usual tone and falling so far short that he scarcely recognized his own voice. Her head jerked up, and she looked at him, stricken, for a moment before flinging herself away with a strangled,

"Oh, God."

"Hermione," she choked out a moment later, then gave an odd, watery laugh. "I think, under the circumstances, I'd rather you call me Hermione from now on."

_Hermione._ Severus cleared his throat, anger and humiliation warring with something else in his chest, something sweet and terrifying. "And what circumstances are those, exactly?" he managed.

She glanced at him. "I'm sorry for-doing that," she said, her cheeks, if possible, going even redder. "It. . . It's just very good to see you." Another faint laugh when Severus shot her a look of disbelief. "I'm just. . . glad you're safe and. . ." She shrugged. "It's very good to see you," she repeated. "Can we just forget this-please?"

Severus felt gutted and winded and unsurprised, the air rushing from his lungs. "Very well," he said; and now his voice lacked any inflection at all.

. . . . .

Hermione turned her head away, praying for the heat to fade from her cheeks. Oh God, she thought. _Oh God, oh God, oh God. . ._ He'd been so stiff when she kissed him, holding himself rigid as though trying not to be completely impolite by hurling himself away. What had she been _thinking?_ What had possessed her? She didn't know when, exactly, _kissing_ Snape had become something she wanted so badly to do. She had admired him, certainly, and enjoyed his company-his surprising kindnesses, his intelligence and dry humor, their conversation and their silences together, the brief, rare quirk of his smile. . . She had wanted the best for him, and ached to see how seldom-if ever-he received it. And then seeing him again after so many weeks. . .

But he hadn't _moved._ Hadn't spoken. Obviously didn't know how to-hadn't wanted to-respond at all.

_Oh, God._

He still wasn't saying anything, and Hermione cast about desperately for something to break the increasingly dreadful silence. Her eyes fell upon Crookshanks, glowering at her from his carrier. "Is there any reason I can't let my familiar out while we're here?" she asked, then inwardly cursed her voice for its shakiness.

"I suppose not," Snape said, "though if it runs into any more of Moody's jinxes, I won't be held responsible."

"I don't think we need to worry about that," she said, crouching and flicking open the cage's door. Crookshanks stalked out, tail swishing. "He's quite intelligent."

"Part Kneazle?" Snape asked, eyeing Crookshanks as the cat sniffed at his trouser leg.

"Mmm-hmm." Hermione's heart finally began to slow down to something resembling a normal pace, as though what happened only moments earlier actually hadn't happened at all. But with that thought, she felt, almost as vividly as though it were happening again, the dry softness of his mouth under hers, and she sought frantically for something else to talk about.

"_Another_ of Moody's jinxes?" she said, finally looking at him directly. "You've already encountered one?"

"At the front door." Snape's cheeks seemed faintly pink, and he cleared his throat. "Hence my directing you to the back."

"Thank you," she managed.

He gave an odd hitch of his shoulders in response, and gazed for a moment into his teacup. "Tea?" he asked then, and tipped his head to one side, somehow succeeding in looking at her while concealing his own expression with the fall of his hair. "Or something stronger, perhaps?" he added. "I suspect we could both use it."

"I-yes." Hermione slid onto the bench across from him, careful to avoid bumping his knees under the table. Snape Summoned a half-empty bottle of Firewhisky and two dusty glasses from the overhead cabinets.

"Apparently the Order abandoned this place in haste," he said, an ironic twist to his lips. He poured them each a measure of the drink and returned to his seat. "Otherwise, I cannot fathom the likes of Mundungus Fletcher or the Weasley twins leaving any alcohol behind."

Hermione smiled weakly, though the expression faded quickly. "Yes. . . They-we-did leave quickly," she said. "At least as far as I understand it." She took a tentative sip, and struggled not to cough. "I wasn't there-only a few people came to make sure we'd left nothing important behind here. That was. . . several weeks ago, now."

"Ah." Snape took a sip of his own drink. "And you have been at your parents' home since term ended?"

"Aside from a few Order meetings, yes." She shuddered slightly, and took a largish gulp of the amber liquid in her glass, then cleared her throat to forestall any other questions in that direction. Despite being the ostensible reason she'd sought Snape out, she suddenly found that she didn't want to. . . She _couldn't_ face what she'd done yet.

"And you've been with You-Know-Who, ever since. . . ?" Hermione trailed off.

"Yes." Snape drained his glass, his throat working frantically above the collar of his frock coat; Hermione found that she couldn't, for a moment, look away. He put the tumbler down on the table with a bit too much force. "And no, before you ask, I do _not_ wish to talk about it."

"Okay." She bit her lip, then blurted, "But just-let me just say one thing." Ignoring the way his expression darkened, she said, "I can't believe he asked that of you. I mean, I assume he asked it. . . I've worked it all out in my head, it makes perfect sense with the curse and the Vow and. . . Draco was ordered to kill Professor Dumbledore, wasn't he?" She glanced at Snape for confirmation, but his countenance remained stony and unrevealing. "And. . . anyway. . . I think I understand the logic behind it, and I suppose some people might think of it as a grand sacrifice on Professor Dumbledore's part, but. . . logic isn't really the point, is it?" She shook her head, the Firewhisky, or perhaps her own tiredness, muddling her thoughts. "I don't know, never mind. I just. . ." She gave him a small, tight smile. "Sorry, I'll stop."

Snape stroked one finger along his temple. "Miss Granger. . ."

"Hermione," she said stubbornly. She knew she was blushing again. "I mean it, please-please call me Hermione."

He gave her an unreadable look. "That will be. . . inappropriate. . . when term begins."

"I'm not going to be there." Snape didn't look entirely surprised to hear this-if anything, the flicker that passed over his face looked like relief. "So you see, there's nothing inappropriate about it."

In the poor lighting, it was difficult to tell, but she was fairly certain his thin cheeks were stained with color. "Your definition of 'appropriate' is rather lax," he muttered, not meeting her eyes.

Hermione felt her own blush deepen, and finished her whisky; she was now feeling decidedly light-headed. "Yes, well. . ." Then something he'd said clicked in her mind. "You're going to be at Hogwarts this year?"

Snape's hands tightened around his empty glass. "The Dark Lord is making me Headmaster," he said.

Hermione stared at him, her chest filling with a heavy, aching dread at all the implications of his statement. "I-oh."

He snorted. "Yes. Quite."

"I mean. . ." Hermione leaned forward, peering into his face. It was drawn and miserable and impossibly tired. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I can't. . . I can't imagine how difficult that is going to be."

Snape gazed down at the tabletop. "It should not have been unexpected."

"Still."

"Yes. Still."

They were both silent for a long moment, before Snape finally sighed. "It would seem we have much to discuss," he said. "Shall we adjourn to the library?"

"All right." She stood when he did and followed him out of the kitchen, her eyes fixed on the tight set of his shoulders, the uncharacteristic awkwardness of his movements, as though he knew she was watching and felt self-conscious about it.

The Black library was still musty and unwelcoming, though it seemed the Doxies, at least, had not had re-infested the room since that summer back before fifth year when the Order had worked so hard to eradicate them. Hermione settled at one corner of a stiff-backed settee, curling her legs under her as Snape moved to sit at the other end, one long leg folded over the other knee. Looking at him, Hermione was filled with a sudden longing to tell him everything, every half-formed plan she and the boys had made in the hollow days after Dumbledore's funeral, every fear that kept her awake at night, for there were so very many unknowns-so much rested on what knowledge Dumbledore had chosen to impart to Harry, and on Harry's interpretation of it, and on what Voldemort chose to do as he inevitably gained control over wizarding Britain.

But she couldn't. Or shouldn't. Or _should,_ perhaps, but wasn't sure. Hermione fought down a sudden surge of anger. _Damn_ Dumbledore, anyway! How could he have left things like this, knowing he was going to die one way or another? Preparing Harry-sort of-to find and destroy Voldemort's Horcruxes, but swearing him to silence. Heaping burden upon burden upon his spy's shoulders, and doing his very best to deny him any help hefting the load. And who knew what demands he'd placed upon other Order members?

"So, you are not returning to school," Snape said abruptly, interrupting her thoughts. He looked pensive, his forehead screwed up in a scowl.

"No, I'm not." She waited for him to ask her why, but he did not, instead shifting restlessly in his seat.

After a moment, she said, "I wish I could tell you. . . I wish we could talk about. . ."

Snape's eyes flew to hers. "What?"

"Everything. This all seems so arbitrary-"

He pursed his lips. "Indeed. And yet, I suspect that your secrets might be as dangerous as mine." At her reluctant nod, he said, "So we will speak of everything except those things we are. . . certain we cannot."

Hermione closed her eyes. "But I'm not certain," she whispered.

When she opened them again, Snape was watching her, an odd expression on his face. "Neither am I."

Every nerve in Hermione's body urged her to reach out and touch him. She balled her hands into fists, grateful that so few candles were lit as her cheeks grew warm.

"I assume you know what you can't tell me," Snape said finally. "Anything else, I leave up to your discretion."

Hermione found herself smiling rather stupidly at his show of trust, and forced herself to moderate her expression. "I-um-yes. Although. . . There are things Professor Dumbledore wanted Harry to keep secret from everyone but me and Ron, and I'm not so sure he was right about that."

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. "I cannot deny," he said slowly, "that the Headmaster and I. . . differed somewhat in our opinions of what information ought to be general knowledge within the Order. I have. . . I have been considering all summer what to do with the information he gave to me, and have not yet come to any satisfactory conclusions."

Hermione pressed her lips together for a moment. "But if-"

"As you are the only member of the Order who trusts me in the slightest," Snape cut in, "you shall be the first to know when I do."

She nodded reluctantly. "There isn't a lot right now for me to tell you," she said. "I don't know where I'm going to be, once the school year begins. That's sort of up to Harry; I think Professor Dumbledore left him with some sort of plan to. . . do the things we need to do."

"Ah." Snape's expression showed just how highly he thought of Harry's ability to follow instructions.

Hermione quirked a faint smile. "We still have-our pendants," she said carefully. "If I've information I think you might need, or-or vice versa, we can communicate that way."

Snape gave her a long look. "Indeed," he said finally. "But I cannot promise that I will always be in a position to warn you before-"

"I know," Hermione interrupted. "But. . . It's something, right?"

"Indeed," he said again, looking undecided about something. She waited, chewing on her lip as some internal conflict played itself out before he finally said, "The Dark Lord knows what day Potter is to be moved from his relatives' home."

Hermione felt, for a moment, as though her heart had simply stopped beating. "How?" she whispered.

Snape raised his chin. "I told him."

"But. . ." She expelled a breath and drew in another ragged one. _"Why?_ And how did you even know?"

"Dumbledore thought it necessary that I continue to incorporate some actual, helpful truths into the things I tell the Dark Lord, and believes that if anyone else among the Death Eaters were to discover the real date after I fed the Dark Lord the wrong one, the Dark Lord would be far less likely to trust me in the future, and that. . ." He trailed off, looking defiant. "I do not like it any more than you do, Miss Granger. And as for the 'how' of it-I _am_ still a spy."

"But-what has Dumbledore to do with anything?" Hermione demanded. "We hadn't even come up with the plan about moving Harry until this summer-"

"Dumbledore's portrait appeared after his death in the Headmaster's office. I have not yet been. . . verified as headmaster by the Board of Governors, but Hogwarts allowed me in."

"It really is sentient, then," Hermione murmured, and Snape frowned.

"Meaning?"

"It knows you're the students' best chance of protection, once You-Know-Who comes to power."

His expression didn't change, really, not enough for anyone else to notice. But there was a very slight lessening of tension in the lines about Snape's eyes and mouth. He cleared his throat.

"It might be wise to. . . convince the Order to come up with some way of confusing matters on the day. I. . . planted the idea of using decoys on Fletcher." The tone of his voice warned Hermione that she might not want to know what 'planted' was a euphemism for in this case. "Or if the Order does not like the idea, the Weasley twins, I believe, have a particular talent for engineering distractions."

Hermione nodded, her mind already whirring with possibilities. "I've been trying to prepare as best I can all summer," she said after a moment. "Reading a lot, trying to think of what we might need in different. . . situations. I've been to Diagon Alley a few times to get Potions ingredients and such-"

Snape interrupted her, his expression suddenly fierce. "I would ask that you not visit Diagon Alley again unless absolutely necessary, and then only with the greatest of caution." He leaned forward, voice low and intense. "It is all but certain that the Dark Lord shall very soon have complete control of the Ministry, and though I have not been privy to all his plans, I do know that Muggle-borns are not going to be-"

"Tolerated?" Hermione interjected dryly, a part of her pathetically pleased by his apparent concern for her safety.

Snape snorted mirthlessly. "Quite," he said, the tightly-drawn lines on his face appearing deeper than ever.

Hermione swallowed. Dumbledore hadn't even considered helping the families of Muggle-born students. He hadn't wanted the Order members' pendants charmed, even knowing the lives it might save. Muggle lives. Snape's life. Her parents' lives. She struggled to control her breathing, panic and grief mounting in her chest.

She opened her eyes to find Snape watching her. "What are you thinking?" he asked quietly, eyes not leaving her face.

Hermione felt her own face crumple. "My parents," she gasped, and pressed her face against her hands, her shuddering breaths loud in the cavernous room.

After several moments, she felt able to lower her hands. Snape raised one hand as though to reach for her, then let it fall back and fixed her with his unwavering attention. "Tell me," he said.

Hermione found that she was shaking. "They wouldn't-they wouldn't let me. I tried to convince them to let me set the wards, but they wouldn't. My dad said he didn't fancy being imprisoned in his own home, especially if I was at school and couldn't-couldn't be there to get them food, or help, or. . ." She shook her head. "I mean, I can't really blame them-I wouldn't like it either, sitting around, not knowing what to expect, not even able to go to work for a d-distraction. . ." To her horror, tears were streaming down her cheeks.

Snape waited patiently. When she'd gotten herself somewhat under control again, he asked, "What did you do?"

Hermione took a deep breath. "I tried to get them to go to Australia. I mean, anywhere, really, but when I asked my mum where she'd like to go if she could go anywhere, she said Australia immediately. I suggested a long holiday, but they thought it was. . . I don't know." She shrugged. "I understand why they wouldn't-there was no telling when they might be able to return, or even if I'd be a-alive to tell them it was safe. But I wish. . ." She shrugged again, and swiped at her cheeks with the palm of one hand.

Still, Snape watched her silently.

"I modified their memories," she blurted.

He raised his eyebrows. "You Obliviated them?"

"No. I-I removed their memories of me." Hermione tugged the chain with her Order pendant and the Unbreakable vial out from under her shirt, holding them up so he could see. "And then I replaced them with new ones. I gave them new identities."

Snape was silent for a long moment, looking at her steadily, and Hermione braced herself for recriminations, for accusations of irresponsibility, of hubris.

But when he finally spoke, Snape said, "That must have been. . . a very difficult decision."

Hermione wrenched her eyes up to meet his. They were bleak, set deep in their sockets, his own difficult decisions lending them shadows that hadn't been there the last time she saw him.

"Yes," she whispered.

His hand lifted briefly and then fell back in an abortive movement; his expression was so full of doubt that she drew in a breath sharply, stabbed in the chest by the force of it, unexpected from someone usually so reserved. For a moment, she thought of their-her-kiss, and wondered, just briefly, if his reticence had not been due to lack of interest, but due to. . . insecurity?

But then he moved again, stretching his arm so the tips of his fingers grazed the inside of her wrist where it rested against her thigh, and something inside Hermione broke. Feeling as though she could easily start hyperventilating, the thoughts she'd been holding at bay since she arrived at Grimmauld Place pressed forward all at once, and she couldn't even begin to get her Shields up in time to stop them.

_Her father in the dining room setting the table, her mother in the kitchen holding a platter of roast potatoes. _

"_Mum-"_

_Distracted- "Can you bring the chicken, love?" _

"_Mum!"_

"_What is it?" Slightly annoyed, eyebrows raised in question._

_Mouth dry, blurting, "You and Dad need to leave. Tonight."_

"_I beg your pardon-"_

"_I know you said you couldn't leave the practice right now for a holiday, but you have to." Speaking quickly, and a touch too loudly. "Mum-it's dangerous for you here. I've-I've made you some new identity cards and bought the tickets to Australia-I know you always wanted to go there. . ."_

"_Have you taken leave of your senses? What would we do in Australia? It's out of the question. And what would you be doing while we're away, anyway?"_

_Shaking her head, feeling her body start to tremble. "I can't-"_

"_You can't tell me." Flat, furious._

"_I'm sorry." Whispered. _

_After staring at Hermione silently for several moments, her mother picked up the platter of potatoes and made her way into the dining room. _

"_Please bring the chicken," she said, voice tight._

_Unable to move, standing beside the counter when her mother returned, choking out, "You have to go." Wand suddenly raised, her mother backing up a step, looking wary. _

_Oh God, oh God._

_Desperately- "I know you don't believe me, or don't understand or. . . It doesn't matter. I can't let you and Dad stay here. I wish. . . Please, believe me, and go. I can have you packed in minutes, just tell me what you want to take-"_

"_Hermione! We're not going anywhere-"_

"_Yes, you are." Her awareness of her pendant, and its warning message, making the metal feel hot against her skin. Her blood thundering in her ears. Whispering, "Petrificus Totalus," and her mother dropping like a stone, arms and legs snapping together, roast potatoes all over the floor. Shaking so hard she could scarcely walk, but managing to make her way into the dining room, where her father's back was turned as he laid out plates and cutlery. Petrifying him and Levitating her mother into the room beside him. Shaking and crying, whispering, over and over, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," as she delved into their minds, so defenseless compared to Snape's and even Harry's that finding the memories she sought was disturbingly easy. Gathering images of her mother, much younger, following the thumps and rolls of the baby inside her with a palm pressed against her rounded abdomen; her father marveling at the small solidity of his infant daughter; the two of them whispering in bed at night, wondering how three year-old Hermione could have reached the books on the top shelf of the bookcase. _

_Holidays spent on the Continent. Birthdays when her father would make her favorite three-layer chocolate cake, one of only a handful of times a year when her parents allowed her to really indulge in sugar. Evenings in front of the telly, Hermione sandwiched between her parents with a book open in her lap while they watched the news. Hot summer afternoons in the garden, the roses' sweet scent almost cloying in the heavy, moist air._

_Their pride in her excellent grades. Their frustration as teachers reported disruptions in class that Hermione couldn't explain. Their fear when Professor McGonagall arrived at their front door. The worry they felt, alone together in the house after dropping her off at Platform 9 ¾ for the first time. How deeply her mother missed her; how much time her father spent collecting articles and other clippings he thought she'd find interesting to send to her at school. Their incredulity and fear when she finally told them about her membership in the Order-fear for themselves, fear for her, fear of a threat they didn't fully understand. And finally, finally, her mother's terror and feelings of betrayal as Hermione raised her wand; her impotent fury as she lay Petrified on the floor. _

_Her own fear as she realized it was growing dark, and she still needed to rid the house of all evidence that she existed, and modify her parents' memories completely._

So sorry, so sorry. . .

. . . . .

Miss Granger was sobbing, rocking back and forth with her arms clutched against her stomach. Severus sat poised on the edge of the settee, his hand having slipped from her wrist, uncertain how to behave.

He was at once impressed and troubled by what she'd done. Miss Granger was a gifted witch, but what he had seen her do was exceedingly complex magic, spells layered precariously atop one another. _If_ she had layered the spells in the proper sequence and _if_ she'd missed nothing when she removed the evidence of her existence from the house and from her parents' minds-then what she'd done was brilliant, right down to the spelled-to-be-Unbreakable bottle of their memories hanging around her neck. If, however, she had made any mistakes. . . Well, Severus had seen for himself the harm that botched mind magic could cause, but bringing that up now, he knew, would be unproductive.

Her familiar appeared from somewhere in the shadows, padding up to his mistress' feet and mewing plaintively. Miss Granger glanced down and with a strangled sob scooped the cat up and deposited it on her lap, where it curled up, purring so hard Severus imagined he could feel the vibrations. He narrowed his eyes, feeling irritated that the creature was able to comfort her so effortlessly, while he sat uselessly by. A moment later, watching her hand stroke its way from the cat's head down its spine, he felt pathetic-jealous of a fucking cat.

"What can I do?" he asked at last, hating himself, and she raised startled eyes to his. Her face was blotchy and damp, her lashes clumped together.

"I don't know," she said finally, and then leaned her head back until it was resting against the back of the settee, where his own arm lay outstretched. Severus felt a moment of pure panic, which abated only slightly when she closed her eyes rather than jerking away from him.

After a long moment, she spoke. "I sent them-" She turned her head and looked at him beseechingly. "Can I tell you where I sent them? I'd like someone else to know, and Harry and Ron. . . Well. . ."

Severus cleared his throat, which suddenly felt raw and dry. "You can tell me. But I cannot promise to be in a position to do anything after. . ."

"I know," she said quickly. "But just. . . I'd feel better." She took a deep breath. "I sent them to Australia. They've got tickets on an afternoon flight tomorrow. I used a Suggestibility Charm to make them feel like this move was something they'd been planning for awhile, but. . ."

"And their new identities?" Severus asked. "How did you manage that?"

Her jaw tensed. "The Weasley twins created a product called a Daydream Charm. It's mostly used for silly things like. . . er. . . romantic fantasies and such, and the side effects are horrendous, but it was simple enough to modify. It just. . . filled in the gaps in their memories with a details I came up. Or at least, I hope it did." She looked to be on the verge of tears once again.

Severus was, in fact, familiar with the charm, having set more detentions for glassy-eyed, drooling students than he cared to count. "That is. . . impressive."

"No it's not," she whispered. "It's-horrible. I did a horrible thing. And I don't even know for certain that it worked properly, and I don't know if I can remove it-I put a sort of Stasis Charm on top of it all to make it last and just. . . hold everything together, but I'm afraid-"

"What you did was not horrible," he interrupted.

She raised her head and looked at him dully. "Yes, it was. You don't know, you didn't see her face-"

He assumed she meant her mother, but didn't ask, wanting instead to derail her train of thought before it went any further. "It is very likely your parents would be dead tomorrow night if you hadn't done this. The Dark Lord is targeting Muggle families."

"And mine was-"

"I don't know for certain. I have not been assigned to go on any of the raids, but you are a well-known Muggle-born, and a blow to your morale would be a blow to Potter's. Miss Granger, if you could not convince them to let you ward their home-and I seem to recall you thinking it unlikely even before term ended that they would agree-and they refused to leave the country of their own volition, your choice was to do as you did, or let them die."

Miss Granger's gaze was intense. "I-" She closed her mouth abruptly, swallowing hard and blinking. "Thank you," she finally said. Her hands were clenched in her familiar's fur, and the cat, after squirming for a moment, leapt off her lap and trotted from the room, tail swishing. After gazing after him for a moment, the girl let her head drop back again against Severus' arm.

"Seriously," she said, closing her eyes. _"Please_ call me Hermione."

Severus stilled, staring down at her. Then, tentatively, he shifted his wrist so that his hand cupped the back of her head. Her hair was springy and tangled instantly about his fingertips.

"Hermione," he said.

. . . . .

Severus wasn't certain how long he sat there after Miss Granger-_Hermione_-drifted to sleep, but it was long enough for his neck to grow stiff and his arm to become slightly numb. His mind refused to settle, tripping from subject to subject with a disconcerting lack of control.

He had never thought he would have a true ally after Dumbledore's death-not that he had ever had an ally of any real sort. Even given the peculiarities of their relationship over the last year, and her actions before he was forced to flee Hogwarts, he had not truly believed that she would still trust him once Albus was dead; the thought that she did both warmed and terrified him. He slanted his eyes down at her; a strand of her hair had drifted across her face, teasing at the corner of her mouth, and he longed, with a frightening physical intensity, to brush it away. He forced himself to remain still, barely breathing, and watched her.

For an incredible moment when he'd thought she truly _meant_ to kiss him, he'd. . . Well. It would not matter, in the end. No matter how much faith in him she showed today, it would be entirely shattered when she discovered Potter's true purpose, and his own part in bringing it to light. _Coward,_ Potter had called him, and, looking at Hermione's sleeping form, Severus knew that in one way, the brat was right. His eyes tracked the heavy fall of her hair over the sofa's back; the curl of her body; the way her lips were parted. The hard press of her skull against his bicep made him think of the press of her mouth against his; the way she'd touched him so willingly, for a moment at least. She'd asked him to call her by her given name, and though nearly two decades of teaching ought to have made him rebel against the idea, somehow, now, their previous status as student and teacher seemed irrelevant.

This impossible girl had sought _him_ out after what she did to her parents. Not Potter, not Weasley. And, he realized, she had been seeking him out throughout the past term as well, as though his company were reason enough to want to be around him, even knowing. . . what she did about him. About what he had done. She had even returned to him, that night in his office after the Order meeting-after she saw him at his worst-she had returned to him as though he were someone worthy of her time and attention. She acknowledged him-acknowledged his humanity, in a way that few people ever had.

_Even Lily,_ said a traitorous voice inside his head.

Feeling suddenly panicked, Severus slid his arm out from underneath Hermione's head, standing up and easing her back against the settee. She shifted, her eyes opening slightly, and looked at him in an unfocused way; Severus remained perfectly still, looking down at her, and then she gave him a sleepy smile and her eyes slid closed again. His breath left him in a soft huff and he looked away, standing undecided for a moment before turning abruptly and leaving the room, his skin hot and oddly sensitized.

In the corridor, he breathed deeply, trying to relax the tension in his shoulders. The memory of her kiss burned through him, bringing with it such a muddle of emotions he nearly put up his Shields to avoid them. "I can't-" he rasped, then dropped his head into his hand, startled to realized he'd spoken aloud. A moment later, he was striding off toward the staircase, as though through energetic movement he might leave his thoughts and feelings behind.

He moved through the upper floors of the house, throwing open doors and peering inside with the vague intention of ensuring the Order had left nothing incriminating behind on the off-chance that the Dark Lord's followers were able to breech the house's defenses. He spotted nothing unusual except the House-elf, who was lurking outside the lavatory, his bulbous eyes yellowed with age and his expression mutinous as he stared after Severus.

Old Mrs. Black's quarters were musty and dark but otherwise unremarkable, and Regulus' room looked likewise undisturbed. Severus paused there, eyes roaming over the room's contents as though they might provide some insight into the mind of the young man who had somehow betrayed the Dark Lord; but of course, they did not, the bed, books, armoire, and various flotsam and jetsam that people accumulate entirely unrevealing. He had not known Regulus well, but his death had been frightening, and when the time came for Severus to betray the Dark Lord himself, the memory of Regulus' screams before he died seemed to follow him everywhere for weeks.

The next room gave Severus pause, and he stopped before entering with his hand on the doorjamb. Sirius Black's room was everything he might have expected, had he considered what sort of space the cur might have chosen for himself: unsubtle, brash, the walls covered with pictures of half-clothed Muggle women who pouted down at him, their bodies sculpted and artificial in a way that left Severus feeling cold.

An adolescent resentment began to bubble up from a deep well within him, and he moved into the room without consciously meaning to, aimed his wand at a Gryffindor banner, and destroyed it with a wordless spell, a tiny bit of his resentment exploding along with the red-and-gold fabric. Another spell blasted apart a pile of books, scattering pages across the dusty floor.

And something else as well. Breathing heavily, Severus knelt and picked up the photograph that had been caught between the leaves of one of the books. Immediately, he dropped it again, as quickly as though it had seared his fingers, but he was unable to make himself look away from it where it lay face-up on the floor before him, his attention caught and held by the curve of Lily's back as she crouched; on the stretch of her lips as she smiled; on the long, slim length of her arms, outstretched toward the small, black-haired boy who was zooming around the photo on his toy broom. At the other side of the frame, a messy-haired man was laughing. He was arrested by the expression on Lily's face as she watched her son, the way her smile broadened when she looked up and met her husband's eyes.

It was then that he saw the letter, written in Lily's loopy, exuberant script, easily overlooked, surrounded as it was by the scattered pages of Black's books. Sitting up, Severus snatched at the parchment, reading through it once, twice.

She was. . . happy. Truly happy. Severus' breathing felt suddenly constricted with a grief so great he couldn't contain it, and he allowed himself to collapse forward, catching his weight on his elbows. He clapped one hand over his mouth as an anguished sound threatened to escape, but otherwise gave himself over to the relief of hot tears coursing down his cheeks, catching in the crevices beside his mouth, and dripping from his nose.

"Lily," he whispered. _"Damn it,_ Lily. . ."

She'd never loved him. Severus knew that-had known it for years-but there was a difference between knowing a thing intellectually and actually watching the evidence of it. Choking, he scrambled into a sitting position, staring down at the photograph for a long moment, the scene continuing to play out in an endless repetition. His hand stole forward, seemingly of its own volition, and snatched the picture up, and with a wordless cry, he tore it in two.

"I'm sorry," he gasped immediately, and pressed the heels of his hands against his eye sockets, dropping the jaggedly torn photograph. Sorry for hurting her with that nasty word. Sorry he had followed her around like a Niffler after a bauble when it was suddenly so clear, thinking back on the one-sidedness of their interactions when they were teenagers, that she was merely too-what? Kind? _Polite?_-to rebuff him. Sorry for her death. . . Sorry that her son was meant to die, as well. Sorry was such a fucking inadequate word.

And Merlin help him-at the thought of Potter's fate, Hermione Granger's image moved, with sickening swiftness, to the forefront of his mind. Her image, and the feel of her hair under his fingers. The look on her face just before she succumbed to whatever form of madness had gripped her, and kissed him.

A gasping, rattling sound emerged from his throat as he struggled to draw in breath, and he shook his head violently, hair swinging across his face, in an attempt to banish the girl's image. It didn't work, and he touched his fingertips to his forehead as if in prayer. He could not even do this thing properly, he thought, self-loathing curling in his stomach. It had been his desperate need to atone for what he did to Lily that kept him going for so long and now. . . Now, all he could think of was how his actions would betray the trust of the young woman asleep several floors below him.

_If you truly loved her,_ Dumbledore had said, all those years ago. And he had-oh, gods above, he had, and yet. . . He seized the second page of Lily's letter, and the half of the photograph bearing her image, and clutched them to him. The only time he could recall her looking at _him_ with anything approaching the expression on her face as she gazed at James Potter was the day he first told her she was a witch.

He gritted his teeth, looking down at the parchment and photograph he held. Seeing Lily's face no longer brought with it the piercing agony it once had; instead, a sort of regret-filled ache settled behind his sternum. When had this happened, he wondered; then a bone-deep despair crept over him, and it didn't seem to matter. Miss-Hermione would hate him, and he couldn't blame her. To keep his knowledge about Potter's true destiny from her-to play out the role Dumbledore had dictated. . . It was, Severus knew, unforgivable. It would break this thing between them, whatever it was, and he would be alone again.

. . . . .

Hermione woke in the Black library, alone and with an aching neck. For a moment she felt utterly disoriented, and then everything came crashing back down around her-her parents, and _kissing_ Snape, and a vague recollection of growing pleasantly drowsy as she leaned against him. But now Snape was gone, and even though it was summer, the room was chilly. She uncurled her stiff limbs with some difficulty and set off through the house, wand clutched in one hand, uneasiness forcing her to breathe shallowly. He wouldn't have just left her without saying anything-would he?

But it seemed that perhaps he had. The hallways were silent-creepy-and Hermione shivered, muttering, _"Lumos."_ She had never been in Grimmauld Place by herself before, and nervousness kept her edgy as she mounted creaking stairs and crept down corridors, the light from her wand bouncing unsteadily off of dusty portraits and skittering away from the darkest corners.

Each room she came to was silent and empty, and Hermione fought down a rising tide of panic and confusion. How could he have just _left_ her, without saying anything? Her thoughts were a jumbled mess of betrayal and humiliation, hurt and fear as she brought her fingers to her mouth and imagined again the thin line of his lips under hers, his startled gaze, his eyelashes surprisingly long and dark against his pale face. How could he have just-left her after that? If Snape had left, she could only think of two reasons for it-either he had been called away by Voldemort, or he had fled her presence as soon as he could after she had embarrassed herself so thoroughly earlier. Neither possibility was a comforting one.

And how, how was she so undone by one kiss-one unreturned, chaste brushing of mouths?

She had never felt quite like this before, and she was aware that it had been creeping up on her for quite some time. The fancy she'd felt for Ron for so long had always been complicated, tinged as it was with irritation and frustration, their frequent rounds of bickering constantly threatening to overshadow the hormonal desire she felt when the two of them were in close proximity. Her feelings for Snape were different, the yearning she felt to be near him, to touch him, stemming from her recognition of all the qualities about his that she admired, all the ways in which, improbable though it might seem, they got along so well.

She finally found him in one of the bedrooms, a thin, pale crack of light showing under the door. Wand aloft, she pushed the door open with her fingertips and peered inside.

Snape was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the wall with his eyes closed, his posture reminiscent of the night she'd returned to his office after the Order meeting. The room itself was in shambles, books and papers scattered all over the floor, and what looked like a scorch mark marring one wall. From the Gryffindor colors, Hermione realized this must once have been Sirius' room, and she blinked and looked once more at Snape. He looked dreadful, his skin pale and his hair straggling limply over his face. For a moment, Hermione thought he was asleep; then his eyes opened slowly, stark and red-rimmed.

"I thought you'd left," Hermione said. She had meant merely to state a fact, but her tone was sharper than she'd intended, the words accusatory. Snape flinched slightly, turning his head away.

"As you see," he said, "I did not."

"Right." She crossed her arms. "Are you all right?"

He didn't respond, but his gaze flickered briefly to something in his lap, and his jaw tightened. Hermione stepped fully into the room and sat down beside him. When he made no move to stop her, she leaned closer to him and looked down at his left hand, which was resting against his leg with the fingers curled loosely around a torn photograph and what looked like a letter of some sort.

"May I?" she asked quietly, and Snape cut his eyes sharply at her before opening his fingers and allowing her to take the picture from him. Holding it up to the light, Hermione couldn't help her sharp inhalation of breath, immediately recognizing the lovely redhead depicted. It was the girl from Snape's memories, the one who made him ache when he was a boy and who cut him off when he was a teenager. Harry's mum.

She swallowed. Lily Potter really was beautiful, she thought, watching, over and over, as the woman reached out her arms to something Hermione couldn't see, and then raised her head and smiled brightly up at someone whose left trouser leg was just visible, raggedly torn off at the knee where the photograph had been rent. Finally, she handed the picture back to Snape, who enclosed it in his hand without meeting her eyes. Glancing down at the letter still on his lap, Hermione skimmed a few lines before her eyes flew to the bottom of the page, where _Love, Lily_ was written boldly.

She let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding and leaned carefully back against the wall, pressing her spine against the dark wainscoting, longing to feel something firm and secure. Her head was buzzing, and her chest felt as though it was stuffed with cotton wool. Things suddenly made a great deal of sense. What a fool she was not to have realized. What an idiot, thinking his unresponsiveness to her kiss might actually mean something _good._

"You loved her," she said, so quietly she wasn't sure Snape heard. But he sighed, rolling his head in her direction. The expression on his face was so complex she couldn't begin to work it out, his eyes bright and intense as his gaze flitted over her features.

"I-yes," he said finally.

Hermione nodded, her throat closing, and looked away. "Okay," she whispered. "Okay." And she settled back beside him to wait for morning.

. . . . .

_A/N: I want to thank everyone for bearing with the long break between chapters (and forewarn you that, though I'll try not to let it happen again, real life is leaving less time for writing these days). Thank you to everyone who continued to leave reviews and send messages of encouragement over the last several months-they really motivated me to keep working, and I can't tell you how much I appreciate them! And a big thank-you to my beta, IvyAmelia, whose patience is apparently boundless :-)_


	19. We must not anchor here

_Disclaimer: I don't own any of it; just borrowing. Any paragraphs ending in "++" contain dialogue from DH. _

* * *

They left at dawn. In the garden at Grimmauld Place, many of the plants were still slumbering noisily. Hermione's mind felt heavy and numb, Snape's revelation and the loss of her parents leaving her exhausted. She stared straight ahead at the back wall of the garden, which was covered in creeping ivy, the brickwork crumbling where the plant had worked its way into the mortar. She was reluctant to look at the man beside her, knowing it might well be for the last time. The thought made her insides spasm with a sense of loss so profound she felt it as a physical pain.

In hindsight, Snape's bizarre behavior towards Harry, even from their initial Potions class as Firsties, made sense, and Hermione felt like a bit of an idiot not to have put two and two together before now. Not that she'd have had any reason, prior to this last year, to suspect him of being in love with Harry's mum, but after being in his memories-after learning he'd at least had a crush on Lily Evans during their time together at school-she should have realized what it meant that he'd been, by turns, so cruel and so protective towards Harry. Snape had protected Harry because he was Lily's son, but he'd hated Harry because Harry wasn't _his._

How could Snape have room for her, still consumed as he was with a love like that, so lasting, so enveloping? It was humiliating that she'd thought, even for a few minutes, that he might actually have liked it when she kissed him. Worse than the embarrassment, however, was the intense, thrumming desire to kiss him again, and properly this time; and the piercing knowledge that he didn't feel the same way. She sucked in a breath, then exhaled shakily.

Snape had been standing silently beside her, his gaze fixed fiercely on an indeterminate point in front of them. Now, he turned slowly to look at her, and in the pale light, she could see that his face was creased and shadowed.

"I should go," he said, and glowered at her as though this was her fault. But then his shoulders slumped and he looked away.

Impulsively, Hermione reached out and grabbed his sleeve, forcing him to face her.

"May I contact you sometimes?" she asked. "Just to-just to know you're all. . . you're still. . ."

Snape's face twisted with some nameless emotion. "Miss-Hermione," he said, amending his first words when she shot him a warning glance. Hermione bit back a slightly hysterical desire to laugh, wondering if he realized he sounded like a House-elf.

"Yes?" she said instead.

Instead of answering, Snape raised a hand and reached towards her, his fingers grazing her clavicle where the chain from her pendant bisected it. Hermione went still, taking only the smallest of breaths through her nose. _In-and-out, in-and-out._ His face was difficult to read as he lifted the chain with one finger, the others resting warmly, lightly, against her skin.

"It would, perhaps, be wise if we were to destroy these," he said. He allowed his words to hang between them for a moment-a moment in which Hermione, stunned, felt her mouth fall open-before he let the chain drop back and removed his hand.

"You're not serious," she said.

A pained expression crossed Snape's face, but he didn't otherwise respond. A sort of surging anger rose from somewhere in Hermione's belly, and she fought to control her temper, her voice rising until it bordered on shrill.

"How could you even suggest that?" she demanded. "After everything-"

"I don't know!" he snapped, then made a noise of frustration and raked his fingers through his hair. "Miss Gra-bloody _fucking_ hell!" He shot her a wild glance, then closed his eyes in an obvious attempt to calm himself. When he opened them again, he drew in a deep breath.

_"Hermione,"_ he said then, and Hermione shivered. "I was foolish to think. . . It was rash, for you to want to charm our pendants-for me to _allow_. . ." He grimaced, brows drawn and mouth pinched, but didn't continue speaking.

"Prof-" Hermione began, then cut herself off, abruptly realizing that she didn't have any idea what to call him anymore. They stared at each other for a moment before she said tartly, "Would you mind very much if I called you Severus? Only it seems silly to still be formal after-everything-"

There was a measured pause before he replied. "If you must," he said, in a strangled sort of voice.

His agreement deflated some of her anger, and she let out a breath. "Severus, then," she said, and if her voice was less steady than she'd like, he at least didn't let on that he'd noticed. "I know-I _know_ the chances that we can actually help each other with whatever's coming are slim, but even if we can't. . ." She swallowed, and said, "I don't think I can face it all without having some way of knowing you're all right."

Snape stared at her for a long moment before saying, "Very well," his voice so quiet she nearly didn't hear him.

* * *

It was Ron's lanky figure that greeted Hermione outside the Burrow. He was in the process of tossing a gnome over the back garden wall; at the sight of her, he was arrested, the ugly little creature struggling against his grip in mid-air before it finally managed to twist away, drop to the ground, and dart off into the hedgerow. Ron ignored it in favor of staring at her, open-mouthed.

"Hermione!" he said. "What're you-I didn't think you were coming yet."

She shrugged, attempting a smile. "Something. . . came up. I was hoping your parents wouldn't mind having me a bit earlier than expected. I thought I could make myself useful with the wedding preparations. . ."

"Yeah," he said. "Sure. Mum's going spare." For a moment, his eyes flicked over her, lingering a touch too long on the way her Muggle T-shirt skimmed her torso, and Hermione's breath whooshed out of her in a surprised gust. Little sleep and the events of the previous day had left her feeling more than a little emotionally unstable, and she fought the sudden rise of frustrated tears. Why did he have to look at her like that _now?_ Now, rather than six months ago, when she'd have given anything to have him see her as a girl and not just his swotty friend?

"Great," she said, a little too loudly, and Ron wrenched his eyes back up to her face. He looked embarrassed, but reached over and pushed open the garden gate to let her in.

"Mum should have breakfast on in a few minutes," he mumbled, and led the way into the house.

Mrs. Weasley was just dishing up eggs when they entered the kitchen, and the surprised pleasure on her round face when she saw who was with Ron nearly had Hermione in tears again. She'd been afraid her presence would just add to the strain the Weasley matriarch was feeling.

"Hermione, dear!" Mrs. Weasley said, hurrying forward to give her a one-armed hug, the other hand still clutching a spatula. "It's so good to see you!" She leaned back and looked hard at Hermione's face, then said without turning around, "Ron, go wake Ginny. I'd like a moment to catch up with our Hermione, here."

Once Ron was gone, taking Crookshanks' carrier with him, she led Hermione over to the scrubbed kitchen table and said, "Sit." Hermione sat, fidgeting with the strap on her handbag, as Mrs. Weasley returned to the stove, dishing up the rest of the eggs and waving her wand to turn the potatoes. "Now then," Mrs. Weasley said, "Tell me what's happened."

A lump appeared suddenly in Hermione's throat, making it difficult to speak. "I-um-I sent my parents away," she said. "It just seemed too dangerous for them here, being Muggles."

Mrs. Weasley turned and looked at her. "Oh, dear," she said, and those two words were so full of sympathy-and not the condemnation she'd feared-that Hermione broke, great, hiccoughing sobs escaping as she curled in on herself.

The next thing she knew, Mrs. Weasley's arms were around her and her face was pressed against the softness of the older woman's chest, and though Mrs. Weasley felt and smelled nothing like her own mother as she leaned into the embrace, it didn't seem to matter.

* * *

Severus had not communicated with Hermione-Miss Granger-_Hermione_-since their awkward parting at Grimmauld Place, except for one brief message in which she confirmed that the Order would be using the idea he'd planted on Fletcher for the move. He had, however, relived in his memory more times than he could count the way he'd felt for those brief seconds when her lips touched his, and the look in her eyes when they said good-bye, one of the first times he had been utterly incapable of deciphering her expression. The way she'd taken his hand at the last minute, small, dry fingers curling around his palm, and _squeezed,_ before letting go and Disapparating.

It would be naive to think that she would not be part of the move, and it was that fact that held Severus rigid with terror on the edge of his bed at the Manor, awaiting the Summons that would indicate it was time to join his brethren and fly to Little Whinging. Beside him were his Death Eater mask and robes, but he had yet to don them. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, trying very hard not to be sick at the thought that shortly, he would have to fight against _her._ If he was lucky, she would not be among the Order members disguised as Potter-though when, he thought bitterly, had he ever been lucky?-and he. . . He would be just another faceless Death Eater.

The plan to move Potter was, Severus knew, flimsy at best and disastrous at worst: Many Potters for the Death Eaters to attack rather than only one. Many more opportunities for Order members to die, and for Severus to betray himself one way or another-as a traitor to the Dark Lord if he slipped up and one of his fellow Death Eaters noticed that he was not aiming at the Potters to kill; or he could just as easily betray himself by doing as Dumbledore might wish, and, if necessary, allow circumstances to force his wand, thus preserving his cover and his place within the Dark Lord's ranks.

He reached into the pocket of his frock coat to withdraw Lily's picture, and sat gazing at it for several minutes. He had taken it with him, intending it to be a talisman of sorts, something tangible to look upon in the coming months to remind him of what he was doing, and why.

But now, he found he didn't want it. It was a feeling Severus did not wish to examine too closely, for losing the all-consuming need to atone, to make things up to Lily as best he could, would once have been akin to losing his lungs or his liver or some other vital part of himself. Now. . . Now he had new reasons to continue, and those reasons, unlike Lily's memory, made him want to _live._ Unconsciously, Severus reached into one of the deep pockets of his robe and touched the tips of his fingers to the little bottle of Felix Felicis he now kept with him, always, along with the scrap of parchment upon which Hermione had penned her note to him, all those weeks ago when she'd left him asleep in his quarters. For a moment he considered taking the potion but some fear stopped him, as though by using it tonight he would be relinquishing the protection she'd sought to give him.

"Irrational," he muttered, "ridiculous"; but he withdrew his hand from his pocket, leaving the bottle behind.

He glanced back down at the picture he still held, and suddenly found himself crossing to the sitting room, his legs working without his conscious thought, opening the middle drawer of the desk there and placing the torn photograph inside. Then he shut the drawer and placed both palms flat on the desk's top, leaning his weight heavily upon them, and closed his eyes.

Seconds later, his Mark burned.

* * *

It was exceedingly odd to be inside Harry's skin. Slight as her friend was, Hermione still felt clumsy, her hands and feet larger than she was accustomed to. And it was strange, too, not to have her own bushy hair getting in her face, though dealing with Harry's glasses constantly sliding down her nose was a distraction in and of itself. Her mouth felt coated with the funky tang of Polyjuice Potion, and she had the urge to give her teeth a thorough brushing.

But she had very little time to dwell on any of this, for Moody was saying that they should move out, and the terror that had temporarily eased upon seeing Harry again returned in force as she scurried after the others, keeping close to Kingsley, with whom she'd been partnered and who moved with long, purposeful strides toward-well, toward nothing in particular as far as Hermione could tell, though she knew from the Order's logistical discussions that a Thestral must be waiting there.

And then, with an apologetic smile, Kingsley hoisted her onto the Thestral's bony, invisible back and climbed up behind her; and then Moody gave the signal and with a frightening lurch, the Thestral began to fly, and for several minutes, all Hermione could do was cling to it with all her strength, grateful for the solidity of Kingsley's body behind her, his legs clamped around the Thestral's sides as its wings beat powerfully on either side of them. Squeezing her eyes shut to avoid the unsettling sight of the ground moving further and further away from them, Hermione breathed slowly through her nose and tried not to give in to panic, trying very hard not to remember that the last time she'd ridden a Thestral Sirius had died and she had ended up with a brand-new scar.

Behind her, she heard Kingsley swear under his breath. Her eyes opened and she just barely had time to palm her wand, instinctively ducking lower over the Thestral's back, before the air around her exploded with the light of curses and screams. She felt Kingsley's arm clamp around her waist, holding her firmly in place as he shot off curse after curse at the hooded, masked Death Eaters into whose ranks the Order had risen.

The fighting was so thick Hermione was having trouble differentiating between the combatants, and she was terrified of firing off a hex or jinx and hitting an Order member. Kingsley seemed far more sure of himself, as, for that matter, did everyone else; the sky was so thick with the smoke from spells fired too enthusiastically that she could scarcely breathe.

She lost track of the other Order members entirely as Kingsley urged the Thestral higher, trying to get out of the Death Eaters' range. Hermione clung to the creature below her with her left hand, and with her right, aimed her wand at the Death Eaters pursuing them. There were four or five, and as she sat paralyzed by terror, Kingsley managed to get off several hexes in a row. Two of them found their targets; those Death Eaters screamed and fell back out of wand-range. Then Kingsley steered the Thestral sharply away from the remaining Death Eaters and for long minutes, all Hermione could do was tangle her fingers in the Thestral's mane and pray wordlessly that she wasn't about to plummet to her death.

From behind her, Kingsley suddenly swore, clamping his legs more tightly around the Thestral's ribs and his arm more tightly around Hermione's waist. She twisted around to see what was the matter and nearly screamed; a lone Death Eater was pursuing them, so closely that had his face not been concealed behind that horrific mask she could have made out his features. He raised his wand, heavy black robes flapping around his body in the wind created by the speed of his flight, and, not consciously thinking, not conscious of _anything_ beyond a sort of full-body terror, she sent a Stunner in his direction and watched in horrified detachment as he fell from his broom, lost within seconds to the darkness below.

"Thanks," Kingsley said in her ear, and Hermione nodded shakily, looking ahead once more-and then her lungs seemed to seize up and she couldn't breathe properly, for the Thestral was visible, it was _right there,_ its dark, bony back beneath her, its neck stretched out in front as it strained to fly faster, its mane whipping out in a tangled frenzy, and Hermione suddenly understood exactly why so many people hated the creatures.

_I killed someone,_ she thought, and was dimly grateful for the strength of Kingsley's grip keeping her upright. _Oh God, I killed someone._

And then, suddenly frantic, she thought, _Severus,_ and twisted her head to look behind them as if she could see the man she'd killed, and reassure herself that at least it wasn't him. But of course there was only black sky.

_It can't have been him,_ she told herself. _It can't have._ He wouldn't have pursued any of the Harry look-a-likes with that sort of single-minded intensity; he could keep his cover without shooting off after one of them alone. Right?

It seemed a very long time before the Thestral began its descent.

* * *

The waiting, Severus thought, not for the first time, was the worst bit of any attack, but this time seemed even worse than usual. Circling slowly above Little Whinging on his broomstick, he could hear the gentle _whoosh_ of displaced air as his fellow Death Eaters, Disillusioned, made lazy arcs around him. It was difficult to breathe behind the silver mask he wore, and despite the chill of the air at this height, he could feel sweat trickling down his spine under his heavy robes.

Then the Order rose straight into their midst, the distinctive rumble of Hagrid's motorbike giving the Death Eaters a few seconds' warning before they were upon them. The air was suddenly thick with colored lights and the acrid smoke that resulted when a spell was cast too forcefully. Severus leaned forward over his broom, dodging curses as he flew. In the chaos, it was difficult to focus, even with the help of his mental Shields; he had the impression that the world was nothing but quick flashes of light and swirling dark robes and Potter's face everywhere he turned. His disorientation was compounded by the fact that he knew, without question, that Dumbledore would have preferred he harm one of the Order members than reveal himself as a traitor to the Dark Lord-but his Shields were not strong enough to completely cut off the paralyzing fear that it might be Hermione he killed.

He circled back to where the fighting was thickest-though more dangerous, it would be easier to maintain his cover within a group-and there was no more time for thought, only action. He barely got a Shield Charm up in time to block the worst of a blasting curse that nearly knocked him from his broom; only just maintaining his grip on its handle, he watched as the pieces of his shattered mask fell to earth, and then felt something surge past him and looked up just in time to watch three other Death Eaters tear off after Remus Lupin and the Potter who was seated behind him. One of them-perhaps Mulciber, by the broadness of the shoulders under his robes, but really, who the fuck cared?-raised his wand, and behind him, Severus felt suddenly wild with fear and raised his own, flinging a _Sectumsempra_ toward the other man's outstretched wand-hand.

His aim was off, the adrenaline coursing through him making his movements less controlled than they would otherwise have been. An agonized scream, and the Potter on Lupin's broom was clutching at the side of his head, and even from this distance Severus could see the darkness of the blood streaming between his fingers. He nearly slipped from the broom, Lupin catching him around the waist at the last moment, before turning the broom sharply enough that the other Death Eaters were brought up short, flying too close together to maneuver as easily as a single broom could. Moments later, Lupin and his charge had disappeared from sight, and Severus was left with a ringing in his ears.

_No,_ he thought blankly, and then, panicked, _No!_ His breath felt constricted, his entire body clammy under his robes, and he was only dimly aware of other Death Eaters calling out to him as they flew off in another direction.

And then, like some gruesome nightmare made real, Severus realized that something was moving towards him through the night sky, a skeletal figure whose robes streamed out behind his outstretched arms, giving him the appearance of wings. He could only stare in horror as the Dark Lord flew past him, broomless, his mouth open on a howl of triumph.

Automatically, Severus followed, streaking with his fellow Death Eaters after their leader.

_Please, he thought,_ incapable of greater coherence, palms slick on his broom handle, heart lodged somewhere in his throat. _Please._

* * *

Hermione sat at the Burrow's kitchen table, her hands curled around a mug of tea that had long since gone cold. She was trying to pay attention to the conversations carrying on around her, but it was difficult to focus on anything beyond her own mounting panic. She'd sent a message to Severus the first moment she could, and had yet to receive anything from him in return. Her mind jumped against her will to the image of the Death Eater _she'd_ killed as he fell through the air, and the room seemed to tip and sway around her.

She glanced across the table to where Harry sat, glaring into his mug of tea. His eyes were red, and Hermione's heart caught at the thought of Hedwig, dead in her cage. God, she thought furiously, illogically, there'd been no reason for a Death Eater to kill an _owl._ So senseless. . .

Beside her, Ron shifted so that his leg pressed gently against hers. Hermione glanced at him, startled, but he was carefully not looking in her direction. After a moment, she allowed her calf to rest more firmly against her friend's, taking comfort in his warmth, in the solid realness of him so nearby. The image of the man she'd killed, whose name she didn't-_Please, God_-even know, faded for the time being. But she still couldn't relax, anxiety rippling through her; it was all she could do to keep from jiggling the foot that lay so near Ron's, or drumming her fingers on the table. Or screaming. How had Severus ended up cursing off George's ear? She knew-of course she knew-his position that evening would be tenuous, dependent as it was on his ability to balance between playing his part successfully and not actually hurting anyone. But the man she knew, normally so controlled, even in the most extreme circumstances. . . She clenched her jaw, staring down at the table. The only times she'd seen him truly out of control were in the Shrieking Shack her third year, and after she broke through his Shields that night after the winter holiday. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then opened them, forcing herself to focus on the present moment.

Mrs. Weasley, having finally stopped the bleeding where his ear had been, had bundled George off to bed, his head swathed in bandages. She'd forbidden Fred from following, insisting George needed his rest, and so Fred sat beside Ron looking, to Hermione, rather lost without his twin to finish his sentences. And Moody's absence was nearly tangible; they'd even unconsciously left a space for him on the bench beside Tonks, whose hair was once again a mousy brown, her face red from crying. Hermione met the Auror's eyes for a moment and tried for a sympathetic smile, but suspected she hadn't quite managed it.

It wasn't until nearly an hour later that her pendant finally warmed against her chest. With a gasp, she jumped from her chair, and was already halfway to the door when she saw Ron's questioning look.

"Loo," she said, and dashed.

* * *

The relief Severus felt when his pendant grew hot was so profound that he stumbled as he crossed the Malfoys' expansive lawn, catching himself with his palms against the grass. He breathed deeply for a moment, eyes closed, and answered one of his fellows' calls of, "All right there, Snape?" with an impatient wave of one hand as he levered himself upright with the other. He forced himself to set a reasonable pace as he entered the manor, affecting a nonchalance he most definitely did not feel as he followed the rest of the Death Eaters into the dining hall where the Dark Lord was waiting to vent his wrath at having lost Potter once again.

Several hours later, Severus escaped to his quarters. The pendant was still warm, reminding him-as though he could forget-that he had yet to read the message it contained. He pushed open the door to his sitting room, too edgy even to feel gratitude that he had not been blamed for the failure to apprehend Potter, and threw himself into one of the chairs before the hearth. With fumbling fingers, he unbuttoned his coat and withdrew the necklace. It took two attempts to actually touch his wand to the pendant's face, his hands were trembling so badly.

_Are you alive?_ her message read.

Severus blinked and exhaled the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"Yes," he said, the word coming out as a croak he was just as glad she couldn't hear. He waited a beat, then added, heart pounding painfully, "Are you well? Did I-I didn't-"

He stopped talking, choked by his own horror at the thought that his idiocy might have harmed her. He was too deeply involved to extricate himself now, but he could not help thinking of Dumbledore's warning about allowing himself to get close to Hermione-or anyone, for that matter-and feel the utter folly of allowing himself to get involved with her in any way beyond the academic.

He might have killed her. Severus let his head fall forward into his hands, fingers twisting in his hair. Or if not her, someone else-someone fighting against the Dark Lord might have been accidentally killed by his wand. He shuddered, horrified by the memory of how his Shields had seemed to dissolve the moment he thought she might be in danger; even more horrified by his own rash response.

It was only a minute or two before she responded, but it seemed like an age. _I'm okay,_ she sent, and then there was a pause in which Severus tried to get his mind working again, to force his lips to part and say something, _anything-_

But she beat him to it. _Thank God you're all right,_ she said. _I was so scared that I'd-I mean, I might have, or someone else might have. . . Oh, thank God. I was so terrified. I can't seem to. . . I'm shaking, I-the last few hours have been awful, not knowing if-_

Severus stared, bemused, at the words blooming across the little notebook's pages. He felt his heart rate slow, vaguely conscious of the rush of pleasure that accompanied her words. _Thank God you're all right._ He could almost hear her speak them, the way they'd tumble from her mouth; he knew without being able to see her just how her mad hair would look after her flight; knew how her small hands with their bitten-down nails would be clutching at her wand; and knew that on her face would be the familiar expression of mingled apprehension and determination, her jaw set, her dark brows furrowed, a question in her eyes. He knew what it felt like, however chastely, to kiss her. Severus shuddered, though the room was warm.

He knew _her,_ in a way he realized now he'd never known Lily. The thought should have hurt; instead, it merely frightened him with its implications.

"I am-I am grateful that you are unharmed," he said then, realizing that if he did not interrupt her babbling she might go on for some time. He paused. "There was. . . an accident. Who did I. . . Who was injured?"

_George,_ came her immediate reply. _He lost his ear._

Severus was grateful that he'd had no appetite for dinner, for he'd have lost anything left in his stomach. "Is he-"

_He'll be okay._

"Thank Merlin for small mercies," he muttered.

_What happened? I could hardly believe it when Professor Lupin told us-_

"It was an accident," Severus repeated, unwilling to say more. His face burned, and he was acutely conscious, now that the agonizing wait to learn whether she was well or not was over, that this method of communication could lull him too easily into betraying himself in more ways than one.

This time the pause before she responded was longer, long enough to fill him with fear that she might think he'd purposely-

_I don't have a lot of time, she sent. I'm in the loo, they'll think something's seriously wrong if I don't come out soon. I don't know-I'm not sure when we're going to be leaving on the task we've been set, or where we'll go-_

"Don't tell me!" he snapped. "You mustn't commit anything to parchment."

Another pause, and he could almost picture her injured expression when she responded, _As if I'd be that thick._

Severus snorted. "Indeed," he said, deliberately noncommittal, knowing how that would irritate her. A small smile played about his mouth for the briefest of moments.

_I've got to go,_ she said. _Stay safe. I'm so glad you're safe._

He ought to reciprocate, Severus knew, but staring at her words all he could manage was a slightly strangled, "Thank you," and though the words sounded inadequate, even stupid to his ears, he meant them. A profound sense of gratitude was blooming in his chest, warming him, spreading gently out over his entire body. His limbs felt molten. It was an odd thing, so be so utterly undone by her show of concern-pathetic, really, but Severus found that at the moment he didn't particularly care.

. . . . .

Several days later, Severus was interrupted in the act of packing his few belongings by a quiet rap on his sitting room door. He crossed the room and opened the door to find Lucius leaning against the doorframe in a sort of parody of his former, perpetually languid body language. Now the sooty circles beneath his eyes, the slight tremor to his hands, the unshaven patches on his jaw that he had clearly missed that morning, all belied his relaxed pose.

Azkaban had not been kind to Lucius; he'd looked like hell when he was sprung, thin and haunted in a way that made Severus shiver. His own time at the prison was something he rarely allowed himself to remember, the bleakest, most horrendous time of his life. The months since he'd gotten free of the place hadn't improved Lucius' appearance much; his clothes were finer, but though his eyes were not empty, they were filled with a constant fear. The horror of having his every happiness sapped by constant contact with the Dementors had been replaced by the strain of living with the Dark Lord's constant scrutiny and disapprobation. It was little wonder the man appeared shattered.

Wordlessly, Severus stepped back, motioning Lucius into the room, and closed the door. "I've only a few minutes, I'm afraid."

"Ah, yes." Lucius clasped his hands behind his back and took a few steps about the room, pausing before an ornate vase, which he studied with an odd intensity, given that the vase was, in fact, his-had probably, in fact, been in his family for generations. "You're leaving us."

"Yes."

Lucius turned slowly, glancing at Severus with an air of appraisal. "I am sure you are eager to begin the process of implementing the Dark Lord's plans for educational reform."

"Indeed," Severus said, carefully not displaying any of the unease he felt at this line of questioning. "There is much to be done before September. I imagine my. . . erstwhile colleagues will not be easily persuaded of the wisdom of the new curriculum." He forced a sneer, though the thought of facing those colleagues had kept him from sleep for the past two nights, his stomach heavy with dread.

"Mmm. Yes. I don't envy you that scene." Lucius trailed one hand idly over the back of one of the armchairs, then stilled. He seemed to be weighing something in his mind, and Severus raised his eyebrows, waiting.

"Draco will not be returning to school." Lucius' voice was pitched low, as though the walls of Malfoy Manor themselves might be listening.

"I see." Severus folded his arms and considered the other man. He had never particularly liked Lucius, not even at school, but. . . "As the newly-appointed headmaster, I must object to the notion of such a promising young man throwing away his last year of schooling."

Again, that calculating look. They gazed at each other in silence for a long moment, and then something appeared to break inside Lucius, and he visibly slumped, folding in on himself.

"It was not my decision," he said.

Severus nodded slowly, feeling as though he were about to leap off a precipice. "I thought as much," he replied, and though his tone was neutral, the older man could not possibly miss the implied criticism of the Dark Lord.

Lucius' expression flooded briefly with relief. "And so I find I must ask. . . a favor. I believe. . . I should like. . . for Draco to finish his education."

Severus raised one eyebrow; Lucius made an impatient noise.

"Yes, well, and the Dark Lord prefers to keep him. . . here."

Slowly, Severus nodded. "What is the favor?" he asked, though he already knew.

"I-" Lucius licked his lips, looking visibly nervous, and Severus tightened his arms, gripping his own elbows, for before Azkaban Lucius would never have displayed his emotions so clearly. "It has become apparent that the Dark Lord has no further use for me," Lucius continued after a moment. He resumed trailing his fingers along the back of the chair. "Short of delivering Potter to him myself and ensuring he's successful in killing the boy, I cannot imagine I will survive this war. Nor, I'm afraid, will my family. I fear. . . I fear that the Dark Lord prefers to keep Draco nearby to further punish me."

Severus had to say it. "Surely being close to our Lord is not a punishment, but an honor."

Lucius' lips turned up in a nasty smile. "Of course." He paused. "It was Draco who had the honor of torturing Olivander after _my wand_ failed to defeat Potter."

Severus hadn't known this, though it explained the recent tightness to the younger Malfoy's expression. "The sins of the father," he muttered.

Lucius cocked an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

Severus closed his lips quickly over his automatic response- _"Muggle thing,"_-and shook his head. "Nothing," he said instead. "I-I regret the pain that must have cost Draco. And you, and Narcissa. I know Olivander has long been intimate with your family."

Lucius shrugged. "Well. There is intimacy, and there is being kept in a dungeon for weeks at a time. I suspect the torture has merely. . . hastened the end of our already tenuous friendship."

Severus choked on a laugh, and after a minute, even Lucius' mouth turned up in the faintest of amused smiles, though it quickly vanished.

"I would. . . count it as a very great favor, if you would speak to the Dark Lord on Draco's behalf," he said.

Severus turned away, thinking rapidly. Everything Lucius was saying was undeniably true, and it was very likely that the order that Draco remain at home was as much an indication that the boy-like the rest of his family-had outlived his usefulness in the Dark Lord's mind. Lucius' failing with the prophecy, Draco's failing to kill Dumbledore. . . Severus' lips thinned. He ought to stay out of it. Putting forth yet another request on Draco's behalf would only serve to undermine his own position as an unquestioningly loyal follower. He could practically see the fury in Albus' blue eyes.

When he turned around, Lucius was watching him, expressions of hopelessness and distaste warring on his face. Lucius was not accustomed to playing the part of the supplicant, and while it must be injurious enough to his pride to do so before the Dark Lord, before Severus it would be significantly more mortifying.

And yet-"Narcissa and I are already. . . very much in your debt, where Draco is concerned," he said, his voice raspy as though it physically pained him to speak the words. "But I must ask. . . I haven't a wand any longer; I cannot hope to defend my family. Draco, at least, can be made safe. I am entirely-entirely at our Lord's mercy." He swallowed thickly, face averted. "And you know he is not the merciful sort."

"Merlin damn it all to hell," Severus muttered. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, where a headache was beginning to pound, then looked back at Lucius. The man's impotence was painful to see.

"Very well," he said. "I'll speak to him. But I can make no promises, you understand?"

"Yes," Lucius said. He stood a little straighter. "This is-"

Severus cut him off. "You also need to understand that Hogwarts will not be the same as it once was. The Carrows are taking over two classes. Draco's Mark and blood status will afford him significant protection among some of the students and staff, but I expect resistance from others. And while discipline will be. . . harsh, in accordance with our Lord's wishes, I cannot guarantee that Draco will not be challenged."

"I understand," Lucius said. He shook his head and a strand of blond hair, escaped from the neat queue tied at the nape of his neck, drifted across his eyes. "It does not-that is, I believe he has. . ." He paused. "Thank you," he said.

"Don't," Severus said. He felt as though he might be ill. "And now, I really must resume my packing and take my leave of our Lord."

* * *

Hermione hovered at the fringes of Bill and Fleur's wedding reception, watching the other dancers and trying to catch her breath. Ron had whirled her around the dance floor like a man possessed, his arm clamped possessively around her waist until she finally begged off, unable to hold back her laughter when he trod on her toes for the fourth time. Ron had grinned good-naturedly and disappeared to get them both drinks.

The day had been perfect, Hermione thought wistfully, her eyes lighting on the newlyweds where they swayed close together-his hands at her nape and hip, hers twined about his neck, heads bent close together in whispered conference, mouths curled into soft smiles. Hermione's throat clogged, and she looked away.

The wedding had been beautiful, and for the most part the celebration afterwards was thoroughly joyful, but for the watchful look about some of the guests. Hermione's gaze flickered over various Order members, all of whom were keeping their wands a little too close at hand for a party. From across the dance floor, she noticed Viktor eyeing her with a faint smile on his face. Hermione smiled back, feeling once again the pleasure of being on the receiving end of a man's obvious admiration, though the pleasure was marred by a vague sense of guilt as she found herself wishing it was a different dark-haired man gazing at her so admiringly. Her smile faded almost immediately, however, as Viktor's expression darkened, his gaze flickering toward the dance floor, where Luna and Xenophilius Lovegood were moving together to a rhythm that seemed to be entirely their own-it certainly had nothing to do with the music that was currently playing. A few minutes earlier, she had been watched over Ron's shoulder as Viktor and Mr. Lovegood held some sort of argument, Viktor pointing at the older man's chest.

The sense that something was going to go wrong grew stronger. She understood why the Weasleys wanted their oldest son to have a real wedding; in some ways, it was almost a form of resistance, sticking two fingers up at Voldemort and the Death Eaters and the pervasive fear that covered Wizarding Britain like smog. And yet, Hermione couldn't help feeling that the wedding had been a terrible idea, far too risky. No matter the number of wards they'd put up around the Burrow. She clutched her handbag more tightly, twisting the strings around her fingers.

Despite Mrs. Weasley's best efforts to keep them all too busy to even think about leaving, Hermione had managed to implement a sort of rough plan. Inside her beaded handbag, she'd stashed Harry's Invisibility Cloak, the books on Horcruxes she'd nicked before they left Hogwarts-and really, Dumbledore must have wanted Harry to have them, or he'd have made it impossible to obtain them so easily-and a few items of clothing for herself as well as those she'd nabbed from the boys' clean laundry piles, which they'd left teetering at the ends of their beds where Mrs. Weasley had dumped them nearly a week earlier. Ron's bedroom was so orange with Chudley Cannons memorabilia that it fairly glowed. Hermione had to smile-it was so very _Ron_-though she couldn't help comparing his room to what she'd seen of Severus', with its appealing mix of dusty bookshelves and armchairs just made for curling up in. Ron's room had nothing to read except a single tattered Quidditch magazine. She'd sighed inwardly-what did he _do_ in there, anyway?

She'd also managed to concoct a plan that even she had to concede, when Ron said it, was rather mad-but mad or not, it was the best she could come up with, which wasn't particularly comforting, but she was a bit too stressed to truly care-and made up the Weasley family ghoul to look like Ron might if he had a severe case of Spattergoit. Luckily, ghouls already smelled foul enough to be convincing on that score. She'd asked Mr. Weasley if he might let her borrow the tent for awhile, and he had looked at her steadily for a moment before saying, "Of course," and showing her where it was kept in the shed. Mrs. Weasley refused to acknowledge that the three of them had no intention of returning to Hogwarts in September, but it seemed her husband had accepted their decision.

She looked up to see the elder Weasleys dancing past her with a certain stiffness to their movements and wariness to their expressions. Hermione crossed her arms over her chest and shivered. At least the Minister had buggered off after Harry's party, she thought; she had briefly worried he might come to the wedding. He'd given the impression of being so slick she was surprised his hand didn't leave an oily residue behind when she shook it. She'd had little time to puzzle over Dumbledore's cryptic bequests, but the question of why he'd give her a book of bedtime stories buzzed like a gnat at the back of her mind.

A memory floated to the forefront of her thoughts: Sitting with Severus in his office reading a different children's book, and she shivered, though the evening was warm. Everything seemed to come back to Severus. She shook her head to clear it, glanced around, and spotted Harry in his Polyjuiced form sitting at one of the tables and staring rather blankly into space. She made her way over to him, edging between clusters of people, and pulled out a chair, realizing suddenly just how badly her feet hurt. Stupid high heels. She eased them off, rubbing her feet where the shoes had pinched.

"I simply can't dance anymore," she said, leaning over slightly to catch Harry's attention. He gave her a startled glance, and she smiled. "Ron's gone looking to find more butterbeers. It's a bit odd, I've just seen Viktor storming away from Luna's father, it looked like they'd been arguing-" She stopped talking, realizing that Harry wasn't even listening, his eyes still fixed on nothing in particular. "Harry," she said, lowering her voice, "are you okay?" ++

Harry pursed his lips, but before he could respond, a blur of light distracted them both. Hermione whirled to keep it in her sight. It was a patronus, a lynx, and her heart began hammering even before Kingsley's distinctive, bass voice boomed out over the assembled merrymakers.

_"The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming."_ ++

There was utter silence for just a moment, before the guests were seized by terror. Both Hermione and Harry were on their feet immediately, and stood their ground in the ensuing pandemonium, stumbling only when panicked guests, rushing in every direction to get out from under the tent and away from the Burrow, bumped into her from all sides, some in the process of Disapparating. The wards around the Burrow were gone, then. _This is it,_ she thought, quite stupidly. _This is it, this is it, this is-_

_Stop it!_ she ordered herself. _Just stop._ They had to get out of there. She had to get Harry away. Ron-where was Ron-

"Ron!" she screamed, standing on her toes. "Ron, where are you?" ++

She felt Harry grab her hand, lacing their fingers together, and she held on to him tightly. "Ron," she gasped into his ear, "where-"

As though her words had Summoned him, Ron was suddenly at her side, his wand in one hand, the other hand gripping her upper arm. Somewhere they won't find us, Hermione thought desperately, as spells flew above their heads. She screwed her eyes shut and thought of London; someone knocked into them; several people screamed. _Go!_ she thought, and turned on the spot.

* * *

Once they arrived at Tottenham Court Road, Hermione found herself acting mostly on instinct. _Get Harry safe, get all of us safe, stay away from Wizarding centers, find a way to alert the Order when we're settled somewhere,_ she chanted to herself. She had far too much adrenaline rushing through her body to spare much amusement for the boys' dumbfounded expressions when she starting yanking their clothing and Harry's Cloak out of her handbag. She hadn't much experience being in London at night, and under the circumstances, the crowds were overwhelming, particularly the lewd suggestions called out to her from across the street by a group of drunken men. Out of desperation-and to stop Ron doing something idiotic-she pulled him into a 24-hour cafe, holding the door just a tad longer than necessary to ensure Harry was able to follow discreetly.

She still felt dreadfully twitchy and exposed once they'd sat down, particularly with her back to the door. After ordering drinks for herself and Ron-and, predictably enough, getting into an argument with him about why they couldn't seek news in Diagon Alley-she had to stop the anxious bobbing of her foot, and when another pair of customers entered the cafe-two large workmen who seemed oddly menacing-it was all she could do not to pull out her wand and cast protective charms around herself and the boys.

"I say we find a quiet place to Disapparate and head for the countryside," she said finally. "Once we're there, we could send a message to the Order." After a minute, Ron agreed, and, wishing badly that she could whip out her wand and use a Summoning charm so as to get them out of the cafe all the faster, she began digging around in her bag for some Muggle coins to pay for the truly terribly cappuccinos they'd been served. Something felt wrong, the hairs at the nape of her neck prickling. ++

Seconds later, she found herself slammed into the side of the booth by Ron's body. The wall behind them exploded and she heard Harry shout, _"Stupefy!"_ from his place across the table. ++

The next several moments were a blur of shouted spells and shattered furniture; one of the Death Eaters-for they must be Death Eaters-falling victim to Harry's stunner, Ron's body bound by the other Death Eater's _Incarcerous._ Their table was blown up by one of the large mens' spells; Hermione just had time to roll under one of the benches, flying bits of metal hitting her shoulder blades. She watched, horrified, as Harry was thrown against the wall, the Cloak slithering, seemingly in slow motion, to the floor. She pointed her wand at the remaining Death Eater, screamed _"Petrificus Totalus!"_ at the top of her voice, and then crawled, shaking badly, out from under the bench. ++

She tried to cut Ron free of his bindings, and managed to slash up his knee instead. She was nearly in tears, her entire body shaking and her breath coming in desperate gasps, when she managed to unbind him on the second try. "I'm so sorry," she said, and the words repeated in her head, over and over. She stared at the two Death Eaters; the one she'd Petrified was unfamiliar to her, but looking at the other, an enormous blond man with a deeply lined face, made her shake all the harder. Her hand found the ridge of her scar and covered it protectively, her nails digging into the skin of her chest when Ron suggested killing the men currently unconscious before them. ++

"We just need to wipe their memories," Harry said, and she nearly sagged with relief. Even knowing who-and what-they were, she couldn't-she just couldn't kill them like this, cold and calculating, without even the comforting veneer of self-defense to allow her to pretend it wasn't murder she'd committed. ++

"You're the boss," Ron said, and Hermione closed her eyes, briefly, relieved to hear the relief in his voice. "But I've never done a Memory Charm." ++

She stepped forward. "Nor have I," she said, "but I know the theory." It had to be less complicated than what she'd done to her parents, after all. She raised her wand, her hand already growing steadier, and pointed it directly at the blond Death Eater's face. _"Obliviate,"_ she said, and felt a mean sort of satisfaction, watching his eyes grow blank. ++

* * *

Severus stood at the gates of Hogwarts and looked up at the silhouette of the castle high above him. For only the third time since he'd come to the school as a scrawny eleven year-old, Severus found the sight terrifying. The first time was when he returned to Hogwarts, knowing there was no safety for him there, the year after Black's attempt on his life; the second was when he went to Dumbledore to beg for Lily's life. And now. . . Severus' hand shook as he raised it, fingertips brushing the gates' scrolling ironwork. One side of the gate swung open at his touch.

Inside, there was no welcoming committee, though Severus had sent word of his impending arrival to Minerva by owl. Not that the lack of welcome was a surprise, and Severus was really just grateful not to have been greeted with jinxes. He made his way through silent corridors, only just stopping himself from heading toward one of the many staircases leading to the dungeons and his old quarters. Instead, he turned left, and soon found himself standing before the stone gargoyle guarding the entrance to the Head's office. For an instant, he felt panic, realizing he had no idea what the password was; and then the gargoyle moved aside of its own accord.

Of course. He was Headmaster, now.

The office, but for Fawkes' empty perch, was just as Albus must have left it, the eerie quiet broken only by the whirrings and clickings of the delicate instruments strewn across the enormous desk. Even the portraits were silent; not pretending to sleep, but still and watchful, many pairs of painted eyes fixed with unnerving intensity on Severus. He forced himself to look each of them in the face without flinching.

Until he arrived at Dumbledore.

The old man's portrait was extraordinarily lifelike, and, seeing it for the second time since killing its subject, Severus found it difficult to breathe under the pressure of those bright eyes. Albus' portrait regarded him steadily for a moment that felt like a lifetime, Severus' heart thumping painfully in his chest. And then Albus said, "Well done, my boy," his mouth curving into a small, satisfied smile.

Severus continued to stare at him for a minute longer, his heart rate slowing. He felt curiously. . . empty. How many atrocities had he witnessed-been _part of_-on Dumbledore's orders? How many potions had he brewed for the Order's use, under narrow time constraints and the pressure of having others' lives in his hands, all the while continuing to toil at a job he loathed? And now-how many tasks were there still to complete? There was the school to run, keeping the students safe, if at all possible, while making them, his colleagues, the entirety of Wizarding Britain believe he was a true Death Eater. There was the Dark Lord to kill, and Potter to send to his death.

For how many years had he been longing to hear those very words? Decades, really-and he found that now, it didn't matter. Even a year ago, it would have. But Severus found, standing in this office where he'd awaited Albus' approbation so many times before, that he was too tired to care.

He turned his head, pointedly ignoring Dumbledore's words. "Good evening to you all," he said, and ducked up the side staircase that led to the Headmaster's quarters. Inside, he took in the sitting room's garish ornamentation, feeling as though he were trapped in a nightmare. His knees felt abruptly weak, and he collapsed onto the settee and covered his eyes with a shaking hand.

_Tomorrow,_ he thought. Tomorrow, for the sake of his own sanity as much as for appearances, he would rid these rooms of all evidence that they had once been Dumbledore's. Tomorrow, he would summon his staff and inform them of the changes the new term would bring. Tomorrow. . .

But tonight-wordlessly, Severus Summoned a bottle of Elf-made wine from the large wine rack in the corner of the room. Tonight, he was going to get pissed, and sleep the insensible sleep of the dead drunk.

* * *

Harry and Ron both snored, loudly. Despite her exhaustion, Hermione was finding it impossible to sleep, replaying all their near-misses over and over again in her mind. The disorienting crowds of Tottenham Court Road; the Death Eaters in the cafe. (_How, how did they find us?_ she thought, over and over, but could come up with no answers). And then, here at Grimmauld Place, the shade of Dumbledore that Moody had left, the fleeting sensation of choking on their own tongues-the realization that this was what Severus had hoped to spare her, when they met here earlier in the summer, by telling her to enter through the kitchen door. Harry's fit in the bathroom, and her guilt afterward for berating him for not closing his mind, when she _knew_ he couldn't; despite what Severus said, she still felt as though Harry's failure was at least partly her fault.

Swallowing hard, Hermione stared up at the ceiling. Above her, in the darkness, she could just make out an ornate plaster medallion surrounding the chain to a dusty chandelier, which, like seemingly everything else in the rotten old house, looked in danger of crumbling away. She trailed her fingertips across her collarbones until they found the flat coolness of her pendant. "Severus," she whispered without thinking, and then stiffened, holding herself entirely still until she was certain neither of the boys had woken.

She let out a small breath and enclosed the pendant in her fist. God, she wished he was here. Wished she could talk to him, really talk. She missed him. _Severus._ It should have seemed odd, thinking of him so informally after years of knowing him as Professor Snape but it wasn't, somehow.

Ron let out a particularly loud snore, and rolled over in his sleep. Hermione looked at him, thinking of his astonishment after they escaped from the Burrow, when she'd produced clothes for the two of them to change into; thinking of the way he'd tossed the sofa's cushions on the floor and announced that was where she was sleeping, end of discussion. A fond smile crept over her face.

Then he snored again and she sighed, restless, and eased herself to her feet, careful not to wake him and Harry.

The house felt just as creepy as it had the last time she was there. This time, at least, she knew for certain she wasn't alone, even if her companions did happen to be unconscious, though she felt lonely for Crookshanks, and squeezed her eyes shut, feeling warm tears trickle down her cheeks, hoping he didn't think she'd abandoned him.

The stairs and floors creaked rather alarmingly as she wandered, and dust got up her nose as she went in-and-out of the neglected bedrooms, but as Hermione was steering well clear of Mrs. Black's portrait, at least no irate screeching rent the silence. Chafing her arms to ward off chill, Hermione willed her mind to focus.

_One problem at a time,_ she thought. Foremost in her thoughts was Harry's connection to Voldemort, but as she'd already tried to do something about that and failed spectacularly, she decided to shelve that worry for the time being in favor of others to which she might actually be able to find solutions.

The fake Horcrux. . . On the one hand, it was rather heartening to know that, at least at some point, there had been another person who knew Voldemort's secret to-apparent-immortality, and who was actively working against it; on the other, it was beyond frustrating that she hadn't been able to figure out _who_ the person was, whether he or she was still alive, or most importantly, whether the real Horcrux had ever been destroyed. Hermione rubbed her temples and sighed, then gingerly pushed open the nearest door, flinching when its hinges let out a dreadful groaning noise.

Wand-tip lit, she stepped into the room and immediately recognized it as the bedroom in which Harry and Ron used to stay. The bedclothes smelled musty and the curtains were drawn so that the only light came from Hermione's wand. She was about to step out again after a cursory glance around when a slight movement caught her eye; she whirled, wand extended, and blinked when she realized the movement had come from a portrait hanging beside one of the beds. She stepped closer, curious, her wand's light illuminating the painted form of a rather sour-looking man in robes that were old-fashioned even by wizarding standards. She leaned forward, trying to make out the name on the plaque attached to the frame.

"Phineas Nigellus. . ." Hermione murmured, then jumped when the portrait cleared his throat. She glanced up to meet narrowed, painted eyes.

"Do you make a habit of poking your nose into others' private space without so much as a greeting?"

"Oh!" she said, and flushed. "I beg your pardon. I was just-you're-you used to be Headmaster at Hogwarts, didn't you?"

The portrait regarded her icily. "And who are you?" Then, before she could answer, his eyes widened a fraction and he began sputtering out something that sounded like, "Great Merlin-brazen chit who-with the _Headmaster-!"_

Hermione stared at him. "What are you-sir? My name's Hermione Granger-"

At that, Nigellus stopped speaking and peered at her more closely. "Granger," he said, tapping his mouth with one finger. "Granger. The name is familiar."

"My friend Harry is-was-godson to your nephew, Sirius," Hermione said. "He owns this house now. Harry, that is. Not Sirius. Sirius is-"

_Stop talking,_ she ordered herself, and promptly closed her mouth.

Nigellus raised an eyebrow, looking thoughtful. "No," he said slowly. "That is not. . ." He tapped his mouth again, and then his other eyebrow shot up to join its mate at his hairline. "Might you be the Mudblood Snape goaded Dumbledore into inviting into his overblown coalition of Gryffindors?"

Hermione stiffened. "The Order of the Phoenix, you mean?" she asked coldly. "Yes, I suppose I am 'that Mudblood.' Though I prefer the term 'Muggle-born.' Or just 'witch.'"

"And I prefer not to have insolent witches disturbing me in the middle of the night," Nigellus retorted. He took out an embroidered handkerchief and touched it pointedly it to his nose, as though holding off a distasteful smell. "And I do hope you appreciate what he did for you, sticking his neck out like that for a student who is not even in his House."

Thoroughly bemused, Hermione said, "What who-you mean Sever-um-Professor Snape?"

"Sev-" The portrait stared at her for several seconds, his expression one of mingled outrage and astonishment. Then a calculating look stole over his features. "Such intimacy of address. Well, he _did_ fear you would be a distraction, though even notwithstanding your unfortunate ancestry, I must say I cannot see the allure."

Hermione glared at him to cover her confusion. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about, but you've insulted me at least twice in the last minute-and-a-half. Good-night."

She turned to go, but Nigellus' next words halted her before she'd taken more than a half-dozen steps.

"I quite remember, now," he said. Hermione turned slowly to face him, and was met with his sour expression. "He got you into Dumbledore's little _club,_ and then you came to his defense at one of those interminable meetings-" It took Hermione a moment to translate that, and then she remembered the Order meeting, months earlier, when she'd tried to convince Dumbledore to charm all their pendants- "and then the both of you arrive in the Noble House of Black and engage in _highly_ irregular behavior-"

She flushed hotly; Nigellus must have had a habit of making his way into one of several paintings in Grimmauld Place's kitchen.

"Not to mention," the portrait continued, his voice going high and reedy with indignation, "the disgrace of a Mudblood student speaking of the _Headmaster of Hogwarts_ in such familiar terms!"

Hermione felt her expression darken further, though it changed to one of surprise, and then chagrin, when Nigellus added, "Your familiarity, however, leads me to believe you mightn't be entirely hostile towards Snape." He clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing the length of his frame, casting glances at her every couple of steps. "Your tender display might, I dare say, mean you actually have a care for his safety."

_Shit._ Hermione looked at him, her mind racing. Nigellus was a Slytherin, so he might have reason to be on Severus' side, although his 'Mudblood' comments were worrisome, as they might indicate a sympathy for the Death Eaters' rhetoric. But as a former Headmaster himself, Black must have a portrait in the Head's office as well, and from what she understood from _Hogwarts, a History_ portraits of former Heads were bound to give counsel and keep the secrets of the witch or wizard currently holding the office, regardless of their own opinions.

She pursed her lips and tilted her head slightly, trying to read Nigellus' expression. He gazed back at her with an impassivity that reminded her of Severus; for some reason, that in and of itself was enough to make her choose honesty.

"Yes," she said. "I do."

His expression was an odd cross between revulsion and satisfaction. "Utterly inappropriate," he muttered, but his tone was one of grudging approval.

"What did you mean 'he' thought I might be a distraction?" Hermione asked quickly. "'He,' who?"

"Dumbledore," Nigellus said, lips twisted into a sneer.

She frowned. "A distraction to whom, though?"

At that, the portrait smiled nastily. "Why, _Severus,_ of course," he said, adding, "He has always had execrable taste in women." He gave her a narrow-eyed look, which Hermione returned to the best of her ability; and then he muttered, "Nosy little trollop," and pointedly turned his back on her.

Back in the hallway, Hermione nearly smacked straight into Ron.

"What're you doing?" he hissed.

"I couldn't sleep." Hermione shivered. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't," he muttered, and rubbed the back of his neck. "But something did-probably that bloody Elf sneaking around-and you were gone, and I. . ." He trailed off, shrugging awkwardly.

"That's sweet," she whispered, and smiled.

It was hard to tell with only their wands' light to see by, but she was fairly certain Ron blushed. "Well, _I'm_ still tired," he said, and after a second's hesitation, reached out to grab her hand. His own was big and warm, and Hermione didn't resist as he led her back to the drawing room, skirting Harry where he still slept curled up on his side. Ron lay down again on the floor, and Hermione lay upon her cushions, and she didn't pull away when he fell asleep almost immediately, failing to relinquish her hand.

She lay awake for a long time, trying and failing to ignore Phineas Nigellus' voice in her head, saying over and over again that Dumbledore feared she had the power to distract Severus Snape.

* * *

Hermione felt like a prat the next morning when Harry announced he'd discovered the identity of R.A.B. Of _course_ it was Sirius' brother, they'd known he was a Death Eater who turned. . .

She hadn't known, however, the depths of the affection Kreacher felt for his one-time master until she watched him break down under their questions, his usual surly demeanor dissolving into pitiful wails that were difficult to witness. Once Harry finally calmed him down a bit and sent him off after Mundungus Fletcher-the sneak, stealing from Harry's house!-Hermione, Ron, and Harry sat looking at each other for several seconds without speaking.

"Well," Harry said finally. "That was intense."

"Mad, is what _that_ was," Ron said, shaking his head. "And by 'that,' I mean that barmy Elf."

Hermione, who had been staring at the place where Kreacher disappeared, recalling the way he'd recoiled from her touch as though she were dirty; the thwack of his forehead against the kitchen floor as he punished himself; his pathetic sobs as he recounted his horrifying tale, whipped her head around to glare at Ron. She was tired and irritable and overwhelmed by the realization that they'd had access to the real locket all the time they'd been at the Black house during that awful summer before Fifth Year, and that now it was gone, and she had no patience to deal with Ron if he was going to act like a. . . like a racist pig.

"I can't stand you when you get like that," she muttered, shoving away from the table. Both Ron and Harry looked up at her blankly as she snatched up her bag and headed for the door. "I'm going to try to do something productive," she shot over her shoulder, and headed for the library to look over the Horcrux books. When Kreacher returned with Mundungus and the locket, someone ought to have an idea how to destroy the wretched thing.

* * *

Severus' staff arrived in his office just after breakfast, just as he'd ordered. Meals between terms were informal affairs, for which he was grateful; he'd been able to take his food in his quarters, neatly avoiding the absurdity of having to face them all over eggs and kippers. A craven part of him longed to avoid facing them at all, longed to remain in his tower and let them wonder what he was playing at. But there were administrative matters to attend to, revised syllabi to distribute, formal introductions to be made. He wondered just what his former colleagues had made, thus far, of the Carrows-mincemeat, he hoped.

Later meetings would be held in the staff room, but for this first gathering Severus was determined to make a formidable impression, ensconced behind the Headmaster's desk and surrounded by the changes he'd made to prove that the office was truly his, now. Gone were Dumbledore's silly little toys and Fawkes' perch, banished to some storage closet in the bowels of the castle. The desk was bare of all ornamentation except a Foe Glass and a particularly fine quill and ink stand, worked in silver. The room's shelves were filled with his books; the chairs' upholstery changed to a plush, muted grey; the elaborately woven rug from his old quarters had been brought up, and in the bright sunlight streaming through the office windows, it looked antique rather than shabby.

There was a grinding noise, stone-on-stone, from below, and Severus pulled his Shields firmly into place and straightened his shoulders, taking a deep breath to steady his nerves as the door handle turned.

Pomona entered first, followed closely by Rolanda and Filius. Hagrid came next, crouching to avoid hitting his head on the lintel, his face a stony mask. Then the Carrows, talking to one another in inappropriately loud tones; then Binns floated up through the floorboards. Poppy, Aurora, and Septima arrived and huddled together near the back, whispering, and then Minerva, bizarrely arm-in-arm with Sybil and looking straight at Severus as though attempting a wandless, nonverbal _Avada Kedavra._ Horace, Irma, and Argus arrived last, all three watching him warily, though Horace, at least, seemed intent upon taking in the changes Severus had made to the office since the night before.

Severus forced himself to look at each person in turn, his heart shrinking at the hatred in nearly every expression. He'd been reviled for most of his life, but this-

He set his jaw. "As most of you know, I have never been one for unnecessarily long meetings, so I will make this brief. This new term brings with it a bit of reordering. There have been changes made to the syllabi of all classes." A muttering rippled through the room-teachers generally wrote their own lesson plans, running any changes by the Headmaster or mistress-and he held up his hand for silence. "Most classes shall be only minimally affected, but others-such as Muggle Studies and Defense-have been overhauled. Your new syllabi are here," he said, indicating a stack of scrolls piled on the edge of his desk, "and I ask that you take them with you after the meeting is concluded and come to me with any questions or concerns before term commences.

"Additionally, two new members have joined our staff: Amycus Carrow, who will be taking over for me as teacher of Defense Against the Dark Arts, and his sister Alecto, who will be filling the Muggle Studies position."

"What's happened to Charity?" Pomona asked, her chin raised defiantly.

Severus' mouth filled with the taste of something dry and spent. Ashes. "Professor Burbage deserted her post, leaving no indication of her destination or when she intended to return. She is derelict in her duty to the school, and therefore her whereabouts are not our concern." He gave her a withering look. "Is that understood?"

Pomona didn't respond, but crossed her arms in front of her chest and glared at the floor. Severus let the moment of silence stretch out, then nodded in the Carrows' direction.

"I expect you all to welcome our new staff members and help them as they learn the ins and outs of their new positions."

Under Dumbledore, such words would have given rise to a smattering of applause from the staff, or at least a murmuring of assent; even his own appointment as Potion's professor only a few years after he had graduated had merited a lukewarm welcome. Severus' speech, however, was met with stony silence.

"Very well," he said, sliding his eyes from one staff member to the next. "Lastly, while we are speaking of your new colleagues. . . I must address the subject of school discipline. I wish you to refer students to the Carrows regarding all matters disciplinary. They are. . . well acquainted with disciplinary techniques, as it were, and I believe their. . . expertise. . . will serve to keep the students in line during this time of change."

"You cannot be serious!"

The outburst came from Minerva. Ah. Of course. Striving to keep himself from feeling like a schoolboy who had disobeyed his teacher, Severus raised one eyebrow coolly.

"I am, indeed. What is your objection? I would have thought you relieved to have your workload lessened."

"You know very well what my objection is, Severus Snape! These-these-_professors_"-waving a hand furiously in the Carrows' direction- "are De-"

Someone-Rolanda, Severus suspected-gave Minerva a shove between her shoulder blades, startling the older witch into silence. Minerva pressed her lips together furiously, closed her eyes, and then continued in more measured tones, though the thickness of her accent betrayed her heightened emotions.

"You are rendering the rest of us impotent," she said carefully, "and, forgive me, but it seems as though you are creating unnecessary work. Not to mention, I find it unfair to allow Hogwarts' two newest staff members free rein over student punishments-"

"Now that," Severus said, glancing at the Carrows, "they shall not have. You shall refer student infractions to Amycus and Alecto, but I shall review each of their disciplinary decisions before they are carried out."

Alecto opened her mouth, almost certainly to protest, but Severus spoke quickly before she could get any words out.

"So you see, Minerva, it is _my_ authority, _my_ judgment, in which you must place your faith. And as for any additional labor created by this new system-it is not your labor, so you have no say in it. Have I made myself clear?"

There was a pause as the older witch stared at him, something flickering behind her eyes. Severus felt a flare of panic at the realization that he might have already given himself away-and then Minerva's expression reverted to one of fury and resentment, and he felt his heart, which had sped up alarmingly, begin beating normally again.

"Perfectly," she bit out, each syllable crisply enunciated.

"Very well. If there are no further questions. . .?"

No one spoke.

"Then you are all free to go. Do remember to take your syllabi."

They filed out in sullen silence, but for the Carrows who each flashed him a sidelong grin as they left. When the door had closed behind the last of the lot, Severus stood silently for a moment and then allowed his Shields to fall, dropping backwards into his chair and clenching his fingers to still their trembling.

"Impudent bunch, are they not?" came the snide tones of Headmaster Black from his frame.

"Quite," Severus muttered.

"I'd say you put them in their place," Black continued. "As well you ought; a Head cannot allow insubordination."

"Indeed."

"Speaking of which. . ." The portrait's tone changed, and Severus turned his head to look at it. "I had quite the interesting tête-à-tête with Harry Potter's Mudblood friend."

Severus' heart seized in his chest. "Do _not_ call her that," he snarled, scraping his fingers through his hair. He looked back at Black, who was gazing down upon him with a superior expression. "Interesting how? She is-she is at Grimmauld Place?"

"Hmmph. Yes. And she appears to be on _quite_ familiar terms with you," the portrait sniffed. "Very concerned. Referring to you by your given name! And don't think I was not privy to that repulsive display at the house of my forebears-"

"What is he talking about, Severus?" Albus broke in from behind him. "I was under the impression that you had cut off contact with Miss Granger-"

Severus ground his teeth together and stood slowly. Concerned, he thought, trying to ignore the southward rush of blood caused by Black's words.

"Severus," Dumbledore said again, his tone brooking no refusal. "I must insist you explain-"

"Sod off, old man," Severus said, and left the office for his quarters.

* * *

_A/N: I just wanted to thank everyone who has continued to review, and to apologize for not being as good about answering your reviews as I used to be. Please know that I truly appreciate them, and they are a huge motivator for me to keep writing (and to write as fast as real life will let me!)_

Also: Thank you to my beta, Ivy Amelia! 


	20. A secret silent loathing and despair

_Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, more's the pity. _

A tapping against the window interrupted the silence in the Headmaster's office on the last night before students returned to Hogwarts. Severus, hunched over his desk, turned to find not an owl, but a skeletal apparition, pale and wearing opulent dark robes, suspended without aid of wings or broom against a backdrop of night sky. A flick of his wand to unlatch the window, and the Dark Lord floated inside, landing delicately upon unshod feet.

"I saw the light, and so thought to come directly up here." He gave wide, terrible smile that flattened his nose still further. "I hope I am not. . . imposing."

Severus suppressed a shiver. "Not at all, My Lord." He tilted his head in the direction of the ornate liquor cabinet. "Might I offer you refreshment?"

"It is I, Severus,"-there was an ophidian emphasis on the sibilants; never before had Severus hated his own name so much- "who have something to offer you."

"Indeed?" His insides felt congealed. "I cannot imagine wanting anything more than you have already given me." He made a wide gesture with one hand that took in the sconce-lit office in which they stood.

The Dark Lord let out a raspy chuckle. "And that is why I have chosen you for this particular. . . gift. You have proven your loyalty, your worth, and you continue to serve my cause tirelessly." A pause, his red gaze sliding restlessly over the room; as it briefly landed on the Foe Glass on the desk, Severus was immeasurably grateful that he had had the foresight to charm the glass so that if anyone but he looked into it, it would show only vague shadowy figures. "Ensuring that this next generation of witches and wizards is loyal to me, to our ideals, is of paramount importance," the Dark Lord continued, locking eyes with Severus. "And so. . . a gift." Long, white fingers indicated the window through which he had entered. "Come. Stand with me."

Severus felt his body obey while his mind remained somewhere else entirely, somewhere pulsing with sickly blue and panicky red. Placing one hand flat against the wall, resisting the urge to look at Dumbledore's portrait, he stepped up to stand beside the Dark Lord on the narrow stone sill.

A fall would kill him instantly from this height. He tried not to think of Albus, sailing over the ramparts. He tried not to be sick.

"Wizards should not consider themselves bound by the limitations of human bodies," the Dark Lord said. "But we need not resort to such crude measures as have traditionally been open to us. The use of external charms. Turning ourselves into _animals_." This last spat with a contempt Severus could feel in his throat; he wondered whether the Dark Lord would ever encounter Minerva on one of his visits to the school. He devoutly hoped not.

"If we wish, we can discover the means to move in our own bodies through the water as easily as a fish, and breathe there indefinitely; to tunnel through the earth." He reached out abruptly and gripped Severus' chin in one long white hand; Severus struggled not to flinch, not to betray his revulsion as long, cracked fingernails dug into the soft flesh under his jaw. "To _fly,_" the Dark Lord said, his mad red eyes catching and holding Severus' fast.

He seemed to be waiting for a response. "In-indeed, My Lord," Severus managed, clear speech hampered by his inability to move his jaw properly.

"I have not yet shared my secret with any others among my followers, Severus. But you. . . You are an innovator yourself, are you not? You can appreciate the desire to challenge the boundaries of possibility."

Again, he seemed to be waiting for Severus to speak. "Yes, My Lord," Severus said, through pursed lips and sore cheeks where the Dark Lord's fingers still pressed.

The Dark Lord released him, then. "Hold out your arm," he said, and Severus did not need to be told which arm. He held out the left, pushed back the sleeve of his heavy teaching robe, fumbled with the buttons on the cuff of his frock coat, his heart pounding, his mouth desiccated.

Finally, he got the sleeves of his frock coat and the shirt underneath unbuttoned and rolled to the elbow, baring his forearm, white but for the Dark Mark that writhed against it. The Dark Lord raised his wand with a grandiose flourish and then pressed the tip to the Mark. "This will only hurt for a moment," he said, smiling hideously, and Severus thought he might pass out from fear. There was a sharp pain that seemed to go straight through the bones in his arm, and then small biting pains that spread out from the point where the Dark Lord's wand tip lay, down his wrist to his fingers and up his arm to his shoulder, over his chest, skittering up his neck to the crown of his head and down his belly and groin all the way to the bottoms of his feet. He strove to remain still, terrified that the slightest movement would send him slipping off the ledge to the darkness below.

At last, the Dark Lord removed his wand from Severus' arm. "Like Charming a broomstick," he said, his voice laced with something like pride. Severus felt a wild urge to laugh, but it was curtailed by the peculiar feeling of. . . whatever. . . the Dark Lord had done settling under his skin, into his insides, imbuing his very cells just as-yes-a broomstick was imbued with the spell that held it aloft. And yet, he, Severus, was not a broomstick. He was not an inanimate object. He was bone and muscle and blood and sinew; brain and spleen and beating heart, and this was _wrong,_ he was so afraid that it was wrong, felt as though he were rotting from the inside out.

"Th-thank you, My Lord," he said, pressing one palm against the stones of the window frame to anchor himself.

"We are not finished, my spy," the Dark Lord said, and with an elegant gesture, he indicated the expanse of darkness that was all Severus could see below and before and above them.

"Come," the Dark Lord said again. "Join me."

* * *

The evening of September 1st was cool and grey. Hermione stood beside the window, her hands cradling a mug of hot tea, and watched the Death Eaters who still stood sentinel on the other side of the street. The sight of them didn't terrify her as it had at first; it was obvious that, though they knew it was there, they truly couldn't see the house. The Fidelius held.

A fine mist was falling outside. Hermione took a sip of her tea, and wondered what the weather was like at Hogwarts right now. She wondered what Severus was doing. What preparations _did_ the Headmaster have to make for the Sorting Feast? Most of it-cooking, cleaning, setting up-was up to the House-elves, and would have been done hours earlier.

She hoped Severus was. . . She bent her head and inhaled the scent of her tea, closing her eyes. There was no way he was doing all right, surrounded as he must be by those who hated him, acting as Voldemort's puppet, preparing to. . . She shivered. Hogwarts must be very different this year, but her imagination failed her when she tried to decide where the changes would lie.

There had been more Death Eaters standing guard than usual that day, as though they actually thought Harry Potter and his friends might return to Hogwarts with a Death Eater in the Headmaster's office. They were muttering together, and didn't look pleased to be standing about in a Muggle neighborhood in the dark and rain.

Well, good.

She curled the fingers of both hands more tightly around her mug, desperate, suddenly, for warmth. Tomorrow, she and the boys were going to the Ministry. She had no idea what to expect, but her insides felt like they'd been tied into intricate knots. Getting in, finding Umbridge, retrieving the locket-if the nasty woman even had it on her at the time-and getting out, all without being either killed or incarcerated, seemed impossible. They had to be mad, or stupid, or both. Hermione gulped the last of her tea and set the mug carefully on the windowsill, then stood gazing at the dark-robed men outside. Yes, the plan was mad; but it was all they had.

They _had_ to get that locket.

Her fingers found the flat disc of her pendant, a nervous habit she'd found herself indulging more and more frequently lately. It was nearly time for the Sorting Feast. Would Severus be using his mental Shields? Her brow furrowed. Under the circumstances, there was a chance he'd begin using them too frequently, again, and keeping them in place for too long. She traced the pendant's perimeter with the tip of one finger. There was no use fretting, though. There was nothing she could do.

Except. . . Glancing over her shoulder to ensure that both the boys were out of sight, Hermione quickly unclasped her pendant and touched it with her wand. "Good luck tonight," she whispered, and watched as the words appeared on the page and then sank away. "I'll be thinking about you."

* * *

Severus tucked his pendant away under the collar of his frock coat. He tugged at the coat's hem and flicked the edges of his robes so they settled properly around his body. From inside the Hall he could hear the hum of conversation from students in the older forms, but to his ear, it didn't sound as loud, as uninhibited, as it had in years past. He glanced down the corridor behind him; soon Minerva would lead the First Years in for the Sorting. Severus shuddered. New initiates. Death Eaters in the making.

It was time he made his entrance.

Placing both palms flat against the double doors, Severus closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe evenly for a moment. His pendant still felt warm against the skin of his chest-an illusion, he knew, as he had already read Hermione's message-but a welcome one. _I'll be thinking about you._ Warmth was good; warmth could help dispel the chilly residue the Dark Lord had left behind after his visit the night before.

Swallowing hard, he readied his Shields, raised his head, and shoved the doors hard enough to send them slamming into the walls inside the Great Hall. Silence fell instantly over the assembled students; they all turned their heads, watching him silently as he strode up the aisle. He felt their gazes, sharp and frightened, like physical weights upon his back and shoulders. The view to the front was no more comforting; his staff sat like statues, disapproval writ plainly upon every face but the Carrows'.

Severus took his place in the high-backed chair at the center of the staff table. A low muttering started up amongst the students in the interval between his entrance and Minerva's with the First Years; Severus took the opportunity to observe the older forms without distraction. His gaze slid from one House table to the next, finally landing upon Slytherin, where his eyes briefly, briefly met Draco's. The boy nodded deeply in his direction, respectfully, just as expected of a fellow Death Eater, particularly one so much higher in the Dark Lord's favor than he was, himself. Draco's eyes were tightly, flatly calm; Severus knew he was also Occluding, and feared he might have been for quite some time.

When the First Years were led into the Hall, Severus stared; there were even fewer than he'd expected. The sight was both relieving-fewer small, vulnerable people under his purview-and dreadful. Watching Minerva place the Sorting Hat on the first student's head, a girl who looked almost absurdly tiny and terribly afraid, Severus laced his fingers together, his grip tight, and hoped the families of the students not present had the sense to keep their children well-hidden.

The Sorting did not take long. Once it was over, Minerva set the hat back on its stool and found her seat at the Head Table with deliberate, measured steps. The room was quite silent as Severus stood, the scrape of the Head's enormous chair appallingly loud. Gazing out at a sea of young, hostile faces, Severus entertained the appealing idea that he might forgo the traditional start-of-term speech, imagined himself utilizing his newly conferred powers and taking flight through one of the Hall's high arched windows.

Instead, he assumed his accustomed icy mask, drawing back his shoulders and feeling the weight of his robes settle around his body. When he spoke, he was pleased to hear that his voice sounded strong, confident, with no betraying rasp or tremor.

"The start of a new school year," he began, allowing his eyes to rove over the assembled students. "To our incoming First Years, I and my staff extend our… warmest… greetings, and our expectations that you shall be a credit to this school."

He indicated the Carrows, seated to his left, with a casual wave of his hand. "Likewise, I would like to welcome our newest staff members, Alecto and Amycus Carrow, who are taking over the positions of Muggle Studies and Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers.

"Those of you who are returning have undoubtedly surmised that this will be a year of many changes, not merely in staffing" -nodding at the Carrows- "but in matters of curriculum and… discipline." He let his gaze linger on the Gryffindor tables, where the mutinous expressions were most obvious.

"Unlike my predecessor, however," Severus continued, "I see no reason for lengthy and grandiose speeches." He stared, hard, at the Gryffindor table. "Any expressions of. . . rebellion. . . shall be dealt with harshly. This is a school. You are here to learn. Fail to do so, and I shall be most. . . displeased."

He struck his palms together and dishes of food appeared on the tables. A strange, hollow feeling threatening to break through his Shields, Severus snapped, "Eat," and sat down before his knees gave out.

* * *

"That Mudbl-Muggle-born friend of Harry Potter has done something to my portrait!"

Severus, who had been staring out the window at the darkened grounds, trying to erase the memory of the Feast from his mind, turned to look over his shoulder at Phineas Nigellus' portrait. Keeping his expression carefully neutral, he said, "Indeed?" and raised one eyebrow. "What, exactly, has she done? Defaced it? I cannot say I would blame her if you insist on referring to her by derogatory terms to her face."

"She has stolen it!" Black said, his painted form quivering with indignation.

Heart suddenly pounding, Severus turned fully to face the portrait. "Where has she taken it?" he demanded.

From behind him, Dumbledore's voice broke in, and Severus squeezed his eyes closed, trying to rein in his frustration. The old man had been absent from his frame when Severus entered the office, the only bright moment in a thoroughly wretched day. "You mustn't ask such questions," Albus said. "You know that, Severus; Harry and his friends have a task to complete and any foreknowledge on your part could compromise everything."

Severus felt as though something had exploded inside his brain, leaving his vision awash with red. "If you would stop being so fucking _cryptic_ all the time-!" he snapped, whirling about, but Dumbledore smoothly interrupted him.

"I thought you'd be interested to know that Harry and his friends infiltrated the Ministry today," he said. Severus stared at him, dumbstruck.

_"Why?"_ he demanded. "The fools-"

"The 'why' is unimportant," Albus said, and Severus wished with all his heart that he could reach through the canvas and throttle the man. "But I saw a bit of what transpired from my portrait in the courtroom and," he folded his hands across his middle, "I merely wanted to forewarn you in case you are Summoned that Voldemort is likely to be… volatile."

Unable to comprehend any of it, Severus asked the only question that mattered. "Is sh-are they-all right?"

The portrait's expression turned cold. "Yes," he said, after an interminable pause, and Severus felt woozy with relief. He grasped at the back of his chair with one hand in order to remain upright.

"There is something else," Albus said.

Severus glanced up. "What is it?"

"You must make a facsimile of the Sword of Gryffindor, and you must hide the original-there is a vault behind my portrait that should do nicely." He raised one tufted eyebrow. "I seem to recall your marks in Transfiguration being high."

"And the purpose?" Severus asked tiredly.

"To keep the true sword in your hands until such time as Harry has need of it," Albus replied. "Should anyone under Voldemort's control come looking for the sword, you must give the copy to them."

It was on the tip of Severus' tongue to ask what use Potter had for the sword, or why the Dark Lord wanted it, but he sensed such questions would be futile.

Instead, he gave a sharp nod and exited his office abruptly, deciding that he had other questions for a different Gryffindor, one he hoped would be more inclined to answer.

* * *

Hermione stared at the trees only a few paces away from where she sat. The wind had picked up, and although it was only September, it nipped at her right through her thin cloth jacket. She could, she supposed, put on her cloak-it was somewhere at the bottom of her beaded bag-but then again, the cold seemed to be the only thing keeping her awake at the moment, so perhaps not. It was better to be a little chilly, she reasoned, than dead because she slept through a Death Eater attack.

In the tent behind her, Harry and Ron were asleep, unless, of course, their nearly-empty stomachs were keeping them awake. She'd tried-she'd _tried_-to find them food, but even though she'd earned a Camper badge back when her parents insisted she join the Girl Guides, she couldn't find much of anything for them to eat. Every snapping twig, every bird call, had left her gasping and terrified that somehow Yaxley or another of the Death Eaters had managed to follow them after all, and once she'd found a handful of mushrooms she was certain weren't poisonous, she'd hurried back to the shelter of the wards she'd erected around their camp site, trembling all over.

The entire day had been one disaster after another. Getting into the Ministry had been relatively easy, but once inside their plan had begun to fall apart. Hermione shivered, as much with residual revulsion as with the cold, remembering Dolores Umbridge's wide, nasty smile, and poor Mary Cattermole's terror as well as that of the rest of the people who'd had the audacity to be born to Muggles. And the Dementors' cold, eager presence…

And then their frantic dash to freedom, and Yaxley's hand tight on her ankle, and splinching Ron-

But they'd got the Horcrux.

A sudden flare of warmth against her sternum startled her into full wakefulness, and she scrabbled under her collar for the pendant, heart thudding against her ribs. Severus. She had longed to contact him today, so many times, but something had held her back. She couldn't divulge the reason for the their risky trip to the Ministry-no matter that, more and more, she wanted to confide in him, to let him in on the secret of Voldemort's apparent immortality, to take advantage of his knowledge and his incredible mind, she couldn't do so through their pendants, couldn't risk her words being read by someone else. Fumblingly, she touched her wand to the flat silver disk and opened the notebook.

_What in the seven hells do you think you were DOING?_ he'd demanded, and then, the words crowded so closely to the others that Hermione imagined he'd scarcely drawn breath between one sentence and the other, _Are you all right?_

"I'm fine," she choked out, half-laughing, half-crying. Her fingers were trembling. "I-I'm-"

_Fuck,_ he said, and she began laughing in earnest, a hysterical sound that had her clapping one hand over her mouth to muffle it so she wouldn't wake Harry and Ron.

_I-pardon me,_ he added. _I just… This has been a hellish day, and then I was frantic-_ He stopped talking abruptly.

_A hellish day._ Hermione read the words several times, her breathing slowing to something approximating its normal rhythm. She had trouble imagining Severus as Headmaster, could not picture what the first day had to have been like for him, for the other teachers, for the students. She knew so little of what was happening in the wider world, and now they were on the run it seemed likely that she would be even less informed.

Hermione hated not knowing.

With one finger, she traced his last words. _I was frantic…_ She felt heat rush into her cheeks, then shook her head, feeling ridiculous. That couldn't mean what she wouldn't quite allow herself to hope it meant.

"I'm sorry you had such a… And then tomorrow's classes, you should be sleeping-" Her face grew even hotter; she sounded like Mrs. Weasley. "This is so much easier in person!" she said. "I wish, I wish we could talk, I wish I could see you."

She wished she could curl up beside him and have him hold her, an image that was both absurd and, at the same time, not. She couldn't quite picture Severus hugging her, and yet she knew, without doubt, that it would feel good if he did.

_You know that isn't possible,_ he said. Hermione didn't know whether to take that as chastisement or a simple statement of fact; she ground her teeth, hating the added insecurity inherent in this form of communication, which gave no indication of inflection or expression.

"Yes, I know," she finally whispered.

_I still want an answer,_ he said. _What were you doing at the Min-what the hell were you doing today?_

"I can't tell you why we were-I can't tell you why," Hermione said. "But… It was worth it, in the end."

_I should bloody well hope it was worth it! Have you any idea of the risk you took? I told you not to even go into Diagon Alley and you go waltzing into the… And you take him with you!_ A beat, and then he added, _You should be glad I'm not with you right now, because I swear I'm angry enough to kill you with my bare hands._

A shiver ran trickled down Hermione's spine, like the unpleasant chill of a Disillusionment Charm. "You know there are things I-we-have to do that you don't know about," she said. "Don't-please don't judge without knowing. We _had_ to go. We didn't-we didn't know what else..."

He didn't respond for several minutes, and her eyes grew dry from staring at the parchment, trying not to acknowledge the part of herself that was terrified, terrified that his silence was the result of being discovered. Then, finally, he said, _You're right,_ and she sagged slightly, the breath she hadn't known she was holding whooshing out of her.

_And,_ he added, _you are also right in that I ought to try to sleep. Tomorrow is likely to be… trying._ Another, shorter pause, and then: _You're somewhere safe?_ he asked.

Safety was a relative thing-she was hungry, in the middle of nowhere with two teenage boys and a bit of Voldemort's soul she had no idea how to destroy-but Hermione sensed this wasn't the time to say so. Severus, she suspected, would understand anyway.

"Yes," she said.

There was another pause, and she wondered whether he'd simply gone to bed. Her breathing sounded loud; the wind picked up and set up a dry rustle among the leaves that had already begun falling. Hermione shuddered, hunching her shoulders.

_Let me know when you move on,_ Severus sent abruptly. And then, seconds later, as an obvious afterthought: _Please._

"I will," she said, glad, for the moment, that he couldn't see the foolish grin stretching her lips. "And-let me know-I mean… You can contact me too, you know," she said. "If you want to talk or just, you know, to let me know you're…"

She trailed off, and after a moment Severus supplied, _Alive? Intact? Relatively sane?_ She could imagine his expression, half-amused and half-bitter, and she swallowed.

"Yes," she managed. "All of the above. Let me know… however you are." She closed her eyes. "I want to know."

* * *

Severus strode through the corridors, heedless of the students stumbling out of his way as they hurried to their next classes. Most kept their heads down, eyes on their feet, but a few dared to glower at him, and from all sides the hostility was palpable, a skin-prickling, painful thing that filled Severus with a childish desire to curl up under the bedclothes and hide away. He kept his head up, however, trying to give the appearance that the students and their hatred were of no consequence to him whatsoever.

The Trip Jinx caught him from behind and sent him sprawling. He landed face-down upon the unforgiving flagstones, palms stinging, pain shooting through his knees. _FUCK._

There was utter silence in the hallway as he got carefully, painfully, to his feet. In an instant, he was thirteen again, _Snivellus_ being jinxed from behind, stringy and ugly and agonizingly aware of the stares of those around him, the titters half-hidden behind textbooks and palms. Severus could feel the flush spreading upwards from his chest, blooming over his cheeks and belying his dispassionate facade.

But when he raised his eyes, there were no jeers, no scornful laughter, only fear in very young faces. And for a shameful moment, Severus was glad to be capable of inspiring fear, rather than of merely looking ridiculous.

"Who did that?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. He turned slowly in a circle, looking at each terrified face in turn. Many of the students had pressed themselves against the walls, as though they were trying to blend in with the stones. No one answered him.

_"Who did that?"_ Severus repeated. Again, there was no response, the students shifting uneasily. He narrowed his eyes.

"Very well," he said. "I could, of course, confiscate each and every one of your wands and subject them to _Priori Incantatum,_ but that would be unnecessarily tedious and time-consuming. I will, instead, choose one of you for purposes of… _interrogation."_

He raised his wand and pointed it at a trembling First Year Ravenclaw; the girl was holding her textbooks to her chest, her eyes wide. "What is your name?" he asked, bending low so that they were nose-to-nose.

"N-Nancy Leonard, sir," she whispered.

"You'll do nicely, Miss Leonard," Severus said. "Come along." He prodded her shoulder with the tip of his wand.

"P-please, s-s-sir," she gasped.

"I said 'come along,'" he barked, this time prodding her less gently. The child began walking, tears rolling down her cheeks. Severus was filled with a loathing for himself that exceeded even what the students and his staff must feel for him.

"Wait," came a high, nervous voice from behind them, and both Severus and Miss Leonard turned.

A Gryffindor Third Year had separated himself from the crowd. He was visibly frightened, his face pale, his wand clutched tightly in one shaking hand. But his chin was lifted, his blue eyes flashing defiantly.

"It was me," he said.

"Mr. Crofter." Severus allowed his mouth to curl into a sneer. "I might have known so brainless a stunt would have originated from the empty space between your ears." His mind was racing, but try as he might, he could think of no way to avoid meting out harsh punishment. The past few weeks had been filled with petty transgressions crossing his desk-more bloody paperwork in a job that was already filled to bursting with it-as the teachers took full advantage of his decision to oversee discipline, taking great pleasure in filling his time with requests for detentions and cleaning duties with Argus. The bulk of larger transgressions were, Severus suspected, being hushed up to the best of the staff's ability, with the unsurprising exception of the Carrows; those students unfortunate enough to be caught out by them in truly serious misdeeds were severely-painfully-punished, and Severus could think of no way to avoid that. It would simply arouse too much suspicion.

He had been shocked, truly shocked, the first time Alecto summoned him, to find her holding a rebellious-looking Neville Longbottom at wand point. The boy had been found, Alecto explained with barely-restrained glee, trying to break into one of the secret passageways out of the school that Severus had ordered closed off before the start of term. Trapped, knowing exactly what the Dark Lord would make of him should Alecto say he'd been lenient over such an offense, Severus had turned the boy over to her for punishment. As she led Longbottom away, Severus felt a horrid urge to run after them, begging forgiveness.

Over the next few weeks, it turned out the incident had not been a one-off; a resistance movement began to spring up among the students with Neville-sodding-Longbottom as its leader.

The stuttering, trembling idiot had decided to grow a spine at the most inconvenient time possible, and he, along with several of his Gryffindor cohorts and a smattering of suicidal morons from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, were doing their best to undermine Severus wherever they could.

Now, he looked down at the boy before him-_So young, oh Merlin_-and crossed his arms. The idiot had jinxed him in full view of an entire corridor of students. There was no question of letting him off easily.

"Come," he snarled, grabbing Crofter by the upper arm, hard enough to hurt, and hauling him in the direction of the dungeons.

* * *

When Severus returned to his quarters that night, he immediately shed his outer robes and threw himself onto the settee. He felt nauseated, both from what he'd done and from the strain of keeping his Shields in place for nearly an entire day without break. Dropping them, he bent forward and put his head between his knees, breathing deeply to calm his roiling stomach.

He had remained in the dungeons for Crofter's punishment at Amycus' wand, fearing that if the Death Eater were left on his own, he'd accidentally kill the boy in his enthusiasm. Even with his Shields in place, it was sickening to watch someone so young being tortured. He'd put a stop to it when he could no longer stand the sound of Crofter's increasingly hoarse screams, and if he was gentler than he perhaps should have been as he took the boy to the hospital wing, at least Crofter wasn't in any kind of shape to notice or remember.

Severus, though, remembered all too well the loathing in Poppy's eyes as she took the boy from him at the infirmary's door.

Now, he put his head in his heads. Warm tears were pooling in his eye sockets, but he didn't have the energy to truly cry. He could not keep this up. For Merlin's sake, it had only been a few weeks, but the stress was already eating at him from the inside out-he had developed a pain in his stomach that he was fairly certain was an ulcer.

Never, in all his life, not even directly after Lily's death, had he felt so isolated, so loathed. Mealtimes were torturous affairs, his colleagues' animosity seeping through the heavy wool of his robes to settle like a film over his skin. The students had become quite subdued, conversations taking place in low voices as they bent low over their plates. When he was a teacher, Severus would have sworn up and down that he'd have found it infinitely preferable to have the students so thoroughly cowed.

He inhaled a shaky breath and leaned his head against the back of the settee. _Please_, he thought incoherently, without any clear idea to whom he was praying. _Please…_

He was suddenly aware, with a sort of physical throb, of every tick of the fine wooden clock that sat upon the mantle. His clothing, even sans robes, felt heavy and constricting, and he began pushing the buttons of his frock coat through their holes as quickly as his trembling fingers would allow, then shrugged the coat off. He undid the buttons at his shirt's cuffs and throat, feeling desperate in a way he couldn't quite pinpoint; and then his fingertips brushed the cool metal disc of his Order pendant, and he realized the desperation had to do with unburdening himself to the only person in the entire world who would listen to him.

Severus had the necklace off and enlarged before he could think further, and he touched it with the tip of his wand before self-doubt overtook him, making him hesitate. He had yet to take Hermione up on her offer-her insistence, if he were being truthful-that he reciprocate and contact her, keep her abreast of his well-being, unable to get past the fear that she wouldn't actually want to hear from him, that receiving his message would be a burden. The prospect of putting wand to parchment and saying "hello" would mark him out, irrevocably, as pathetic, his… _feelings_… evident even across the physical distance between them.

He'd made himself pitiful, a laughingstock, over a woman who had no interest in him before; that one time had been more than enough.

And yet, Hermione had continued to contact him whenever she and her two puerile friends moved to a new location, and Severus had relished those moments of contact, carried them with him for days until the next time his pendant warmed. If it wasn't for Hermione, he was certain he'd have already run utterly mad.

She had said she wanted to hear from him. She had.

Before he could discourage himself further, Severus said, in a voice that only rasped slightly, "May I speak with you?"

* * *

Hermione's pendant turned warm just as she was drifting off to sleep. Her eyes snapped open and she waited a moment for them to adjust to the lack of light inside the tent. Harry was a dark, indistinct lump in his bunk under the bedclothes, snoring softly every so often. From outside the tent, she could hear Ron still fiddling with the wireless; mostly all he got was the crackle of static, but one heart-stopping time he'd happened upon faint voices that sounded, unbelievably, like Fred and George before the program cut out seconds later. Ever since he'd been desperate to find it again, without any luck.

They were all of them miserable; for two days, despite the fact that they'd moved camp, the weather had been foul, with unrelenting rain and a crisp wind that cut through even the strongest Warming Charms. The day before they'd managed to catch some fish in the river, and so had eaten at least one solid meal, though as none of them was adept at cooking, the fish was terribly overdone. But today there'd been nothing-literally nothing-and Hermione's belly creaked with hunger. She felt weak and shaky, and thinking was difficult; her brain felt fuzzy. It was obvious that both boys were doing badly, too, Harry withdrawing into himself more and more, Ron becoming increasingly irritable, his words bordering on cruel even when he wasn't wearing the locket.

Hermione's own turns with the Horcrux were torment, hunger leaving her more susceptible than usual to the thing's vile suggestions. Thoughts about what a stupid, reckless decision they'd made, running like this, when it was becoming clearer with each passing day that Harry had no idea what they were supposed to do. She'd lain on her bunk for hours re-reading _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ and mentally cursing Dumbledore for being so terribly cryptic in his gifts.

Or perhaps, she thought in her darker moments, he'd truly just thought it a book she might enjoy. The idea only fueled her anger.

With the locket around her neck, Hermione's thoughts had turned to Severus even more frequently than usual, but they were bitter, painful things, green-tinged and uncomfortable. She remembered their brief kiss with a humiliation that felt magnified a hundred-fold, imagined him sneering at her after they parted. She felt ill at the thought of how immature she must seem to him, for under the influence of the Horcrux, the Severus of her memory was lacking any trace of insecurity, taking on instead an almost superhuman confidence, his features no longer pinched and sallow but pale and sculpted as a statue's. Her mind filled with images of him naked and entwined with a red-haired woman who was a thousand times more beautiful than Hermione could ever hope to be. She felt like gagging, vomiting, but there was nothing in her stomach to bring up; instead, she spent her hours wearing the locket tensely, wretchedly unhappy, imagining Severus laughing at her as he made love to Lily Potter; Harry dying because they hadn't been able to find the last Horcruxes; her parents shutting the door in her face when she tried to reinstate their memories, telling her they had no daughter, they'd never had one, and furthermore if they did she would be far more worthy than Hermione.

Now, though, it was Ron sitting watch with that dreadful thing around his neck, and Hermione felt her heart rate speed up as she pulled her pendant over her head, feeling its unnatural warmth against her palm for a few seconds as she groped for her wand under her pillow. She couldn't imagine why Severus would be contacting her so late unless something was very wrong; despite agreeing, sort of, to occasionally be the one to initiate communication between them, he never had. She longed to really know how he was doing, had even, once, considered asking Phineas Nigellus' portrait if he could, or would, give her any insight into Severus' state of mind. But she wasn't entirely certain that she could trust the portrait, despite his apparent concern for his fellow Slytherin's well-being; she kept remembering the way he'd called her 'Mudblood,' and couldn't help fearing his sympathies lay with Voldemort. She had taken his portrait as a back-up means of communication, in case the pendants should somehow be compromised. But she wasn't ready to put her faith in it without dire need.

Now, she cast a non-verbal _Lumos_ and _Muffliato_ in quick succession and flipped the pages of the little notebook to the most recent entry.

_May I speak with you?_

Hermione frowned. "Of course," she whispered, keeping her voice quiet despite the precautions she'd taken against Harry waking and hearing her.

Seconds later, Severus responded. _I'm-I apologize for the late hour. I could not… that is, I was occupied…_

He trailed off, leaving Hermione clutching her wand, wishing very hard that she could see his face. Something was wrong.

"Please, don't worry about it," she said. "I wasn't asleep." She paused, but he didn't immediately say anything, so she forged ahead. "Is something the matter? Something… more than usual I mean?" He rarely spoke of his life as headmaster, and when he did it was always in the most general terms, just as she was careful not to commit any revelatory details about her life to parchment. But she knew, remembering the bleakness of his expression when they'd parted at Grimmauld Place, that he was likely having as difficult a time as she. Worse, even, for he didn't have anyone with whom to share it.

_Nothing has changed,_ he said finally. _But today has been… difficult, and I just… wanted to… talk._

Hermione's throat felt clogged. "I'm glad you got in touch with me, then," she said. Then, before she lost her nerve, "I miss you."

She could almost picture the uncomfortable expression on his face, and decided to spare him the need to respond-and herself any pain if his response was not what she wanted to hear-by adding, "What's happened, then?"

_I cannot tell you,_ he said, and Hermione pressed her face into her pillow in frustration. When she raised her head again, it was to find that he had added, _I'm sorry, this was… stupid. I'll let you sleep._

"No!" she said, more sharply than she'd intended, and she glanced quickly over her shoulder to make sure Harry was still fast asleep. "No," she said again, more quietly this time. "God, I wish we could really talk. This is maddening."

_Indeed._

She gave a damp chuckle. "It really… It really helps me, though. I mean, knowing you're there. Things are really-really hard right now."

_Yes._ A pause. _It helps me, too._

"How are you?" she said. "I mean-how are you really?"

There was only a slightest of pauses before his response came, swift and heartbreaking.

_I am in hell._

* * *

After that, Hermione began contacting Severus with greater regularity, and to her surprise and joy, he began to do the same. It was beyond frustrating that there was so much they couldn't-wouldn't-discuss, but as she and the boys grew increasingly discouraged by their inability to do anything at all except hide and mope and talk in ever-tightening circles about avenues to try next, she looked forward to her communications with Severus more and more.

"I miss you," she'd begun saying at the end of each communication. "Stay safe." And Severus responded with, _You, as well,_ which invariably left Hermione feeling both warmed and confused, for there was no way of knowing whether he meant he missed her, he wished her safe, or both.

Tonight, for the last hour or so she'd been unable to get Severus out of her head. It was her turn to wear the Horcrux; running through her mind were the same insidious questions as always, whispered in a sinister voice that seemed to stroke her very nerves and made her tense with shame. _You think he'd want you? An ugly schoolgirl, so stupid you can't solve the task you've been set?_

It didn't help that she'd spent the last ten minutes listening to Ron moan about the inadequacy of their meal until she wanted to hex him. She and Harry exchanged a look across the tent; it was a look of commiseration but not, it turned out, one that meant they were in this together, for when Ron drew breath before starting another loud, long string of complaints, Harry said quickly, "I'll take first watch, eh?"

Hermione resisted the urge to hex _him_ instead of Ron.

Once Harry had taken the locket and left the tent, Ron sat on his bunk, elbows on his knees and head buried between his wrists, his fingers clenched in the hair that was getting long again, curling around his ears and the top of his collar. Hermione, free of the Horcrux but still feeling its lingering effects, like poison leeching slowly, slowly out from the pores of her skin, watched him from the corner of her eye as she cleaned up. They'd finished the mushrooms and charred fish; disgusting as the meal was, it was more food than they'd had the day before, and none of them was willing to waste it.

After a while, there were no more dishes to be done, and she stacked the clean ones neatly away. Which was when she realized that Ron's shoulders were subtly shaking. The sound of his harsh breathing was loud in the silence, though it was obvious he was trying to temper it.

Without thinking, Hermione had crossed the room, her annoyance and frustration with him forgotten. When she put a hand on his shoulder, he jerked away, startled, and raised red-rimmed eyes to hers. Just as quickly, he dropped them again, turning away slightly.

"Ron…"

He shook his head violently. "I don't want to talk about it, Hermione." When she made a noise of protest, he said, "All we do is fucking _talk_ and I'm _sick_ of it!"

She pressed her lips together and sat gingerly beside him on the bunk. "Okay."

Obviously surprised that she wasn't going to harp at him, he turned his head to look at her over his shoulder. After a minute, she scooted closer to him, her heart speeding up the way it always did when they were in close proximity, a physical reaction that she couldn't ever explain logically, because it wasn't like Ron was a Lockhart in the looks department, and they had so little in common that they always ended up bored or arguing.

Muggles would call it chemical-a compatibility of pheromones. She wished it translated into other aspects of their non-relationship, as well.

Hermione felt herself blush as her upper arm bumped against his, but she put the palm of her hand against his middle back, the most intimate thing she'd ever done to him, and began to rub in slow circles. Ron was staring at her as if he'd never seen her before, his eyebrows furrowed, something sparking in his blue eyes that had never been so completely directed at her before. Hermione swallowed and kept up the steady motion against his back, not speaking, and eventually Ron's face relaxed, and he didn't look like the sullen, suspicious young man he seemed to have become over the last weeks, but like the boy she'd wanted since she was fourteen years-old. He licked his lips.

"Hermione. . ."

His voice cracked as it hadn't since he'd hit puberty, and suddenly his entire face was flaming red. Hermione giggled, then clapped a hand over her mouth, but Ron, though he'd shifted away from her at the sound of his own voice betraying him, was smiling, his wide mouth stretching despite his attempts to control it, and finally he gave in and chuckled as well, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

"Merlin's arse," he mumbled, and buried his face in his hands for a moment.

Hermione giggled again, feeling unbelievably light-hearted in a way she hadn't for. . . She couldn't remember how long. Unthinkingly, she flung her arms around Ron's shoulders and squeezed.

"I've missed you," she whispered.

"What're you on about?" Ron twisted in her grasp until they were practically nose-to-nose, and now his ear-tips were red with something other than embarrassment.

Blushing, Hermione let go of him, but didn't immediately scramble away, as her instincts were telling her she should. "I-that bloody locket. You're different with it on-" she hurried to keep talking when she saw that he was about to protest, "-I mean, all of us are, but it seems like you're still battling. . . whatever-it-is even after the fact." She groaned. "I'm messing this up utterly," she said, letting her hair fall heavily over her face; for an instant, she had a vision of Severus doing the same thing, and she blinked rapidly to banish it. She thought of him constantly, but it was unexpected memories-the swoosh of his robes, the brittle sound of his laugh, the tentative way he watched her from behind his hair-that made her feel as though she were broken.

But then, there was Ron, wrapping his big square hand around her upper arm. "Hey," he said, and Hermione drew in a deep breath and faced him.

"Hey," he said again, softly, cupped his other hand around her cheek, and kissed her.

Ron's mouth was wide and warm and generous, and he drew it across her own with an urgency that sparked a similar need deep in her belly. Hermione shifted so that she was sitting on his lap, her fingers in his hair, her breasts against his chest. And when she felt the hardness of his erection against her thigh, she felt no worry, only a primal urge to move against it.

It wasn't until Ron slid his hands under her shirt, fumbled slightly with the clasp of her bra, and finally shifted the cups aside so that he could touch her unencumbered, that Hermione realized Harry was only a tent-flap away from them. She jerked her mouth away from Ron's, gasping slightly, and said, "Harry-we should-"

Ron took the opportunity to press his mouth against her neck, running the flat of his tongue down her throat, and though the sensation was really more wet than pleasurable, it was distracting.

_"Muffliato,"_ she managed to breathe, reaching into the back pocket of her jeans to pull out her wand.

Somehow-later, Hermione wouldn't quite remember who instigated it-both their shirts and jeans were shed, and her bra was discarded, and they were pressed together on Ron's bunk, only the thin material of her knickers and his pants separating them. Ron's legs and stomach were covered in fine ginger hair, but his chest was perfectly smooth, dotted liberally with freckles. She resisted the desire to cover her breasts as Ron stared down at her, his mouth hanging slightly open.

"Have you done this before?" Hermione asked finally.

Ron flushed. "Uh. . . Yeah. A few times. You know, with. . . Lav. . ."

She swallowed; she'd suspected, of course, but it was something else altogether to hear the words. "Right, then," she said, attempting a smile.

Ron shook his hair out of his eyes. "Have you?"

It was her turn to blush. "No." Touching and being touched by Viktor didn't count, not really. "I know the Contraceptive Charm, though, don't worry."

He laughed. "'Course you do," he said affectionately, and watched, a slight smile on his face, as she pointed her wand at herself and murmured the incantation. He waited until she had set her wand aside and turned back toward him before abruptly leaning over her, braced on his elbows and knees, his fingers at the back of her head, and kissing her thoroughly. Hermione lost herself to the sensation of her very nerves melting.

She wrapped her legs around Ron's waist and used her toes to tug at his pants. He broke the kiss, grinning, and pulled them the rest of the way down himself. As he rose before her, kneeling, Hermione felt a nervous swoop in her stomach: He was a bit larger than Viktor.

But then he was pulling her knickers off, and her hips were rising of their own volition to help him, and they were kissing again, tongues and lips, and he had insinuated a hand between their bodies and was parting her gently, seeking the place she realized then was throbbing with the need to be touched. When he found it, she let out a high, keening noise of surprise and pleasure that made her deeply grateful Harry couldn't hear them.

"Merlin," Ron whispered. The look on his face was reverential; his fingers were more skilled than she would have guessed, and soon Hermione was rocking her head back and forth on his pillow, arching her back for firmer pressure. When she came, it was with a soundless cry, her entire body left limp and tingling, the place between her legs pulsing to the frantic beat of her heart.

Before she had got her breath back, Ron was using the hand that had so recently been stroking her to position himself at her entrance. Then he was pushing forward, inside of her, his face a mask of concentration.

Hermione felt pressure between her legs, and gasped. "Oh-"

Ron stopped immediately. "You okay?" he said breathlessly.

"I-yes," she said after a moment. And she was. She felt stretched, but it didn't hurt, precisely, not like she had feared it would, at least. "Go on."

But then the pressure built as he pushed forward a bit farther, and then, with a determined grunt, Ron thrust all the way through, and Hermione had to bite his shoulder, hard, to keep from shrieking.

Ron stopped moving. "Are you-"

"Just. . . wait," Hermione said between gritted teeth. "Just. . ." She closed her eyes against his expression-both concerned and impatient. The sharp sting of sudden pain began to recede after a moment as she adjusted to the peculiar feeling of having something inside of her.

She opened her eyes and met Ron's. He smiled tentatively. "Okay," she breathed.

He moved above and inside her, and Hermione held on. There was no pleasure this time, and more than a little pain, her skin still raw and sensitive from his sudden invasion. But after a minute or two, she got the hang of moving with him, shifting her hips upward to meet his downward thrusts. She tightened the grip of her thighs and calves around his waist, hooking her feet together at the ankles, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, using her fingers to push his head down until she could reach his mouth with hers. Then she learned how deliciously a groan could thrum from one mouth to another, how hot Ron's skin got as he neared the edge, the hard press of his forehead against hers, his sweat dripping into her eyes. He went rigid when he came, letting out a long, painful-sounding grunt, and turned his face upwards, preventing her from catching it in her hands and kissing him. For a moment, Hermione felt bereft, flat on the mattress as one of her best friends loomed above her, held in his own world for an instant by the force of his orgasm. Then he sort of flopped down and rolled off and out of her in one movement; she gasped slightly at the cool air and the sting of him pulling out too quickly.

Ron turned to face her, grinning. "That was brilliant," he said, folding one arm behind his head. When Hermione merely smiled weakly in response, he seemed to realize that something more was called for, and used his other arm to pulled her flush against his side.

"You know I've wanted this for a really long time, right?" he mumbled into her hair.

She swallowed, hard, her eyes filling with tears. "Me too," she whispered, tucking her face into the crook of his neck.

He tightened his arm around her briefly, but Hermione could tell by his breathing that he was beginning to slip into a doze. "Ron," she said, touching his chest with her palm. It was warm and slightly damp, like the rest of him.

"Mmm?"

"Don't fall asleep yet-here-" Hermione sat up, ignoring his mumbled protests, and found his T-shirt and pants. "Put these on. I've got to get in my bed so Harry doesn't. . ."

Ron sat up as well, dressing clumsily. Hermione stood and felt something dripping down her leg; looking down, she was fascinated and horrified to see the glisten of semen, mingled with streaks of her blood. Spelling herself clean, she fumbled for her pajamas and then turned to say good-night, feeling awkward and shy, aware of a dull pain rooted deep between her legs, only to discover that Ron was already asleep.

* * *

_A/N: A big thank-you to all of you who have continued to review and offer encouragement, despite the lag between chapters! I can't tell you how much it helps keep me motivated._

A special thank you so much to Jong_Kahn for noticing the problem of the Foe Glass in the last chapter, and to my beta, Ivy Amelia, for her suggestion of a solution and her careful editing. 


	21. Passionate kisses of parting (pt 1)

_Disclaimer: I don't own this, particularly sentences with dialogue ending in "++," which comes directly from DH. _

* * *

_Are you there? We moved again._

I am here. Are you… well?

As can be expected, I guess. What about you?

Mmm. Yes. 'As can be expected' sounds about right.

I can't talk right now. The… others… expect me back in a minute. It's my turn to find food.

Find-

Um. I've got to go. I miss you, S-um. So much.

What do you mean, 'find' food?

Don't worry about it-I really ought to go.

You cannot… Very well. Stay safe.

You, too.

* * *

It feels like this is never going to end. Like we're never going to be finished. We'll always be running.

Indeed.

Has the reward for 'Undesirable Number One' increased?

By several hundred Galleons. As have those of his… partners-in-crime.

Well. That's something, I guess.

If by 'something,' you mean bloody dangerous-

I do, actually.

… Good. I am glad you have some semblance of common sense.

Well thank you very much! You've rooted around in my brain, for God's sake, I'd hope you'd know I have more than a bit of-

I apologize. It is late, I'm tired, and I have more than enough to worry about… here… without the added strain each week of seeing the increase in the price on y-Ah.

… Oh.

Quite.

* * *

How are you?

Tired. Really tired. We've done a lot of walking today.

Where-never mind.

How are you?

Bloody peachy.

Hang on a tic, I think one of the others is up. I'll be back.

I shall wait with bated breath.

Very funny. I'm back, by the way.

I noticed. And I'm never funny.

Yes, you are actually… God, I want to get away. Where would you go if you could go anywhere, right now? I used to go to France with my parents on holiday. That was lovely.

I have never really been anywhere, so I hardly know. In this, I bow to your superior knowledge. Though I'd have thought a somewhat more distant locale might hold more appeal to you, these days.

A slightly more-oh. Yeah. You're right. Wow, what's wrong with me, I hadn't even thought of that. Goddamnit, I'm…

…There is nothing the matter with you.

But I didn't even-I was picturing mountains or beaches or-or-I don't know, ancient temples or something. I wasn't even thinking about…

You are under a good deal of strain, I should think.

But still… God, I'm a terrible daughter, a terrible person.

You are neither.

… I miss you very much.

* * *

Severus felt a familiar flare of warmth against his chest just as he was seating himself for dinner in the Great Hall. Keeping his expression carefully neutral, he sank into his chair, nodding at Amycus, seated to his left. Amycus grinned at him around a partially masticated mouthful of chicken, and Severus flicked his gaze away, reaching for his goblet and drinking deeply to cover his repulsion. To his right, Minerva snorted quietly into her napkin, and when Severus glanced at her they shared a rueful, amused look of the sort that had once been typical between them whenever a student did something foolish or Trelawney made one of her absurd pronouncements. During the tenures of both Dolores Umbridge and Gilderoy Lockhart, those looks had been frequent indeed.

Now, for the briefest of moments, it was as it had ever been between them, a waspish sort of accord. And then the tipped-up corners of Minerva's lips turned down and her expression grew pursed once more, a sharpness to her eyes that, Severus suspected, was directed as much at herself for forgetting, for a minute, that he was despicable, as it was at Severus himself. She glared at him for a few seconds before turning pointedly to speak to Filius, seated to her other side, and Severus was left with a hollowness at his core, feeling deeply just how much he had truly lost.

He focused on his pendant's gentle warmth against his breastbone as he methodically ate his meal.

Most of the portraits were either sleeping or absent when Severus ascended the spiral staircase and stepped into his office after dinner. Glancing at Dumbledore's frame and watching for several seconds as its occupant's chest rose and fell steadily with his slumbering breaths, Severus began unbuttoning the top buttons of his frock coat and shirt, unclasping the necklace and enlarging it with unconcealed eagerness. He flipped past Hermione's previous messages to the most recent page.

_We've moved again, not that it makes much difference, really._ she'd sent. And then, _I miss you. How are you?_

Severus frowned for a moment. Her words were… well, it was bloody difficult to tell without hearing her inflection, seeing her face, but they sounded hopeless in a way that worried him. Her messages, in fact, had been growing increasingly defeated in tone of late. He swallowed. Where they hell was she, and what was she doing?

He raised his wand, intending to send a response, when Headmaster Black cleared his throat self-importantly from his frame. Severus froze, shoulders stiffening, and turned slowly, raising one practiced brow.

"Yes?" he said.

Black's eyes were fixed on the small notebook in Severus' hand. "Writing to the girl again, are you?" he asked, and Severus darted a glance at Albus' portrait. The old man was still asleep, or appeared to be, but Severus knew that Dumbledore's appearance, in particular, could be deceptive.

He looked back at Black, expression bland as he could make it. "Why do you ask?"

The portrait smirked. "I merely thought you would like to know that she is occupied at the moment."

Severus' heart stuttered in his chest. "What do you mean?" he demanded. "And how do you know-"

Black tutted insincerely. "She has grown careless, I'm afraid. She left the bag in which she keeps my portrait-shoved in with books and clothing and all manner of things!-open tonight."

Severus glowered at him. "I am rapidly nearing the end of my patience," he said. "If you have something to tell me, do so. I have no interest in guessing games."

Black affected a look of wide-eyed innocence that was entirely ridiculous on his angular face. "I only wanted to forewarn you that the girl mightn't have an opportunity to converse with you for a while yet. Of course, they put up a Silencing Charm, but before they did…" He shook his head, an expression of genuine distaste crossing his features. "Most unseemly," he said.

Something very cold seemed to have settled and congealed inside Severus' stomach. "Who?" he asked before he could stop himself. "Who are you talking about?"

"The Mud-_Muggle-born,_ and the red-headed friend of Harry Potter. As I said, I have not been privy to anything else, but from what I could hear, I cannot believe this is the first time they have been so… intimate."

It was several seconds before Severus could speak. "I see," he managed around a tongue that felt clumsy in his mouth, through lips that were suddenly very dry. He straightened his shoulders. "While I cannot imagine what interest you think I'd have in the romantic fumblings of adolescents, I do appreciate your keeping me apprised of their actions. Should you manage to glean any _pertinent_ information, do let me know."

He turned and swept out of his office and into his sitting room, resisting the urge to look at Dumbledore's portrait. Sinking into an armchair, he rested shaking hands atop his knees.

Hermione. Hermione and that… _puerile_ boy. Severus attempted to swallow around the lump that had suddenly taken up residence in his throat. His eyes burned, and, feeling the need to move, he stood and began pacing before his hearth. Well. How _nice_ for them that, whatever the fuck else they were up to, they had the time to devote to _romance._ How perfectly _lovely._ His breathing was too fast, hissing in and out through the spaces between his clenched teeth.

He realized, then, that he still held the little notebook in one hand, the corners of its brittle pages bent where his palm pressed too tightly against them. With a snarl, he flung the wretched thing to the rug. It landed without making any noise at all, really, or at least not any that could be heard above the crackle of the fire and the rasp of Severus' breathing. He stared at it-it had closed upon landing, hiding Hermione's latest communication. After a long moment, he let out a sigh, crouched down, and lifted the thing by its chain. Returning it to its flat, silver form, he fastened it around his neck and tucked it away under his collar without answering her message.

The burning in his eyes grew worse, dry and painful, and then suddenly it disappeared-suddenly, there was dampness on Severus' cheeks, leaking into the deep grooves beside his mouth, and oh _Merlin,_ how he loathed himself.

* * *

Ron pulled Hermione more tightly against him, drawing the covers up to their chins. "Merlin, it's bloody cold," he groused. "I'm so _sick_ of being cold." He pressed the heels of his hands against his eye sockets for a moment before dropping them and staring up at the bunk above them. "I thought Harry knew what he was doing, I thought-"

He tugged at the quilt as he spoke, inadvertently baring Hermione's side to the frigid air inside the tent, which felt all the more bitter against her sweat-slicked skin. Irritated, she yanked back on the quilt.

"I know!" she snapped. "God, how many times do we have to go over this? I _know,_ all right? I guess maybe I thought the same thing, but we were wrong, and going over and over and _over_ it doesn't do any of us any good!"

"What else is there to do?" Ron demanded, half-sitting. "How long are we going to do this? It's _freezing,_ we don't even have decent food-"

"Stop thinking with your stomach and start helping Harry and me figure out where we should look for the next Horcrux, then!" Hermione's voice rose with each word until she was practically shrieking. Grateful for the Silencing Charms they used now as a matter of course during Harry's watches, she sat up as well, clutching the quilt to her chest and ignoring the sting of cold against her shoulders and upper back. She glared at Ron, who glared right back at her; his expression held no trace of the tenderness he'd shown her only minutes earlier as he moved within her, their bodies slapping together with a desperate sort of rhythm.

_Oh God, we have to stop talking,_ she thought. Everything seemed to go to hell between them when either one opened their mouths.

And really, that was the terrible thing about it all. She closed her eyes against sudden tears. When she opened them again, Ron was watching her, wearing an expression of profound irritation.

"We have to stop this," Hermione whispered, and as soon as the words were out she felt a great rush of relief and fear. Her chest cavity felt simultaneously light and heavy.

"Stop what?"

_"This."_ She gestured back and forth between them. Her voice shook a little. "I can't-we can't-this doesn't work, Ron! Maybe you can, but I can't just ignore the fact that except when we're…" She flushed and took a steadying breath. "Except when we're having sex, we fight all the time. I can't just… turn that off. I can't keep doing this."

A dark flush spread upwards from Ron's chest, blotching his collarbones, neck, and cheeks with red. "You've got to be kidding me," he said.

Mutely, miserably, Hermione shook her head. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "It's not-I do care for you, you must know that. But we're not-this isn't-"

"Right." Ron shoved the covers off himself, not seeming to care that the movement yanked the quilt from her hands. Hermione hissed as cold air washed over her body, covering her head-to-toe in goose bumps. He scrambled over her legs to the edge of the bunk and began fishing around in the dark for his clothing from the jumble of both of theirs on the floor. Hermione snatched the covers up to her chest and scooted backwards, watching as he jammed his T-shirt furiously over his head, scrambled a bit to get his arms through the sleeves, then stood, clutching his underwear in one hand. "In that case," he bit out, yanking the pants over his hips, "you might get out of my bed and let me get some bloody sleep."

Hermione blinked and swallowed hard, but pushed the covers away and jumped out of the bunk, trying to ignore Ron's eyes on her as she stooped awkwardly, picking her pajamas up off the floor as fast as she could. She pulled them on, feeling exposed before him as she hadn't since their first night together, and retreated to the other side of the room, burrowing under the blankets on her own bunk. She curled in on herself and listened to the sounds of Ron getting back into bed-God, he managed to make even turning back the covers sound angry-feeling tears prickle at the corners of her eyes. Eventually he stopped thrashing about, and she could just make out the shape of him lying rigid on his back, bedclothes clutched tightly in his fists.

"Ron, I-" she began, but the moment she spoke, he rolled over, facing the wall. Hermione lay still for several seconds; she blinked, and a tear trickled over her right cheekbone to pool uncomfortably in her ear.

"I really am sorry," she told his back.

* * *

Very late that night, so late, in fact, that it was actually very early the next morning, Severus was roused from a restless doze by a prickling across his shoulders signaling that the wards on his office had been breached. He was halfway across the sitting room before he had come fully awake; wand aloft, he threw open his office door.

Whatever it was he had thought to find, it certainly wasn't Ginerva Weasley shattering the glass on the case that held the Sword of Gryffindor, Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood hovering behind her. At the sound of the door banging against the wall, the three students turned as one to face him, open-mouthed. For a second, no one moved; then Longbottom lunged toward the case with a wordless cry. His fingers just brushed the hilt of the sword before Severus non-verbally Summoned it to him. It slapped against his palm, and in the next instant he had the three of them disarmed and bound.

"Pathetic as usual," he sneered. He held the sword loosely at his side and looked each of them up and down. All were fully dressed-and shod-and Severus was glad, for once, that he had fallen asleep in his armchair, for otherwise he would be confronting the miscreants clad only in his old nightshirt.

"And what," he asked in his most dangerous tone, "did you hope to accomplish with your thievery?" The Gryffindors glared at him mutinously, while Lovegood appeared engrossed in watching light from the sconces play off the sword's jeweled hilt, a faint smile turning her lips up at the corners. Severus felt a surge of anger-bloody fucking _teenagers,_ mucking about for Merlin-knew what reason. His suspicion that the jinxes he'd been discovering around the castle, set specifically to deploy only if triggered by either himself or the Carrows, were the work of Longbottom and his little gang as well, was now confirmed. Idiots, the lot of them. But now, staring at the three before him, Silenced and unable to move, Severus felt his anger wane as quickly as it had appeared, leaving behind a deep, deep exhaustion. Gods, but it would be so much easier if they would _stop making trouble._ It was difficult enough trying to keep the students safe with the Carrows, stalking the halls, a lust for violence woven through their nasty,  
inbred bloodlines and just itching for an excuse to torture. With these _children_ playing deadly pranks and then fucking _disappearing_ afterwards it all felt quite impossible. Though a part of Severus was heartened that some of the students were not too cowed to resist the Dark Lord's influence at the school, he was careful not to speculate, even within the relative privacy of his own mind, about where it was they vanished to. He found himself grateful they had discovered such a place, and hoped it was safe..

He surveyed the students before him, and suddenly wanted nothing more than to get them out of his sight. With a flick of his wand, he Vanished the ropes securing their ankles. "On your feet," he said, crossing his arms and taking a perverse pleasure in watching them struggle to rise while their hands were still bound. Once they had managed it, he directed them, with a nod of his head, to the moving staircase. Longbottom and Miss Weasley looked at him mistrustfully before stepping down, but Miss Lovegood didn't look at him at all; she was humming something cheerfully tuneless under her breath. Severus stared after her, bemused, for a moment before bringing up the rear, his wand pointed at the blond witch's back.

Argus and his mangy cat were in the corridor outside Severus' office, the caretaker swirling a mop over the flagstones. He looked up when the strange party descended, nodding his head obsequiously at Severus.

"Headmaster," he muttered, eyeing the three students.

"Mr. Filch, I'm glad you're here," Severus said. "These pupils were stupid enough to try to break into my office."

Argus' scraggly eyebrows rose. "They do much damage?" he asked, leaning on the handle of his mop.

"They neglected to consider that I might have wards," Severus said drily.

Argus gave a snort, but Severus could sense the older man's wariness. Argus was not truly the sort of person to enjoy watching people get hurt; Severus had long suspected his bluster about manacles and whips was a sort of overcompensation for his lack of status as a Squib in the Wizarding world. He had been gleeful during Umbridge's tenure simply because she acknowledged him, but it had been the result of being disrespected and ignored by generations of Hogwarts students. Severus would bet all the Galleons in his Grigotts vault that the caretaker had not been a party to some of that woman's nastier modes of punishment; since the Carrows took over discipline at the school, Severus had noticed that Argus had complained far less loudly and less often about student infractions.

"Such a bumbling burglary attempt deserves punishment overseen by someone equally idiotic and bumbling," Severus said. "I think a week's detention with Professor Hagrid should do."

The two Gryffindors, predictably enough, turned on him with outraged expressions. Bloody morons. Miss Lovegood, however, turned to look at him over her shoulder, her weird eyes thoughtful. Feeling suddenly wrong-footed, Severus shoved her forward none-too-gently with the tips of his fingers.

"Take this one back to the Ravenclaw dormitory," he said to Argus, and then, with two flicks of his wand, he had Longbottom and the Weasley girl levitating three feet off the floor, their legs kicking impotently, mouths shouting unintelligibly. "I'll bring these two back to theirs."

* * *

Hermione lay on her bunk, curled into a ball under the blankets, her knees drawn up to her chest. She was breathing in and out through her nose, quietly, concentrating on the staccato rhythm of it, staring at the tent's canvas wall. She was trying very hard not to think. If she began thinking, she would begin crying again, and she'd cried so much already since Ron-

_Damn it._

-since Ron-

_Stop it._

-since Ron left them. _Left them,_ walked right out, abandoned her and Harry and the rest of the sodding Wizarding world because-because-

_Because you drove him to it._

_Shut up, shut up, shut up!_

She pressed her palms over her ears, like a child who didn't want to hear her parents scold her.

_Think about something else. Think about listening to Dean and Tonks' dad and the others in the woods. There are other people on the run, too. Think about other people trying to resist. Think about the fact that we're not alone, not really. Not even with Ron gone. There are others…_

From somewhere behind her, she heard the shuffle of Harry's trainers.

"Hermione?"

She didn't answer.

_There are others, but they don't know what they're doing any more than you do. They're doomed, too._

"Hermione, aren't you hungry? I saved some fish for you."

With great effort, she rolled onto her back and turned her head to look at him. His face was screwed up in an expression of concern; his glasses were slipping down the bridge of his nose.

"What time is it?" she asked. Croaked. Her throat was awfully dry.

"Um, a little after three, I think."

Three. That meant only a few hours until dinner; only a few more after that until they started taking their turns for the night watch. Then start it all over again the next day.

She'd been lying here for hours, apparently.

She looked up at Harry, who was still hovering awkwardly beside her bunk, shifting from foot to foot. _We can't do this,_ she thought, and for the first time since they'd left London, the thought wasn't accompanied by her usual desire, however faint, to scour her books just one more time for information, to prove her vile, pessimistic side wrong. Instead, it was accompanied by a wash of hopelessness that left her cold.

"We're going to die, aren't we?" she said, turning to stare up at the bunk above hers.

"… What?"

"Never mind." It didn't matter.

There was a long pause; she could feel Harry there, still hovering, but couldn't muster the energy to look at him.

"Hermione-you've been wearing that thing for a while, now," he said finally. His hand appeared in her peripheral vision, palm-up. "Let me have it."

"Have wha-" she started to ask, but then she remembered. The Horcrux. Right. Reaching behind her neck, she unfastened the chain. Her fingertips brushed the clasp of the other chain she wore, the one from which her Order pendant hung. It was strange, the locket and the pendant lying side-by-side against her skin, one vile, toxic, sapping her equilibrium and her strength whenever she wore it, the other her only link to the world outside the tent, to the person who kept her going. She dropped the Horcrux into Harry's open palm and turned away again, fingers working their way under the neck of her jumper to press against the cool flat surface of the pendant. Dimly, she heard Harry retreating.

With the locket gone, Hermione felt a slight shift in her head, the insidious humming that had filled her brain for hours finally quieting. Occluding did nothing to shut the Horcrux up, to lessen its influence or block the hideous way it magnified every negative thought she had. The logical-the _Hermione_-part of her brain reminded her that Occluding took a great deal of energy. It required calories, and the few calories she and Harry were managing to scavenge these days were going toward simply keeping her alive, keeping her organs functioning and her brain sending signals to her fingers and feet and eyes and ears. There was nothing left over, as Hermione's dry skin and brittle hair attested, for non-essentials.

But when the locket was nestled in the space between her breasts, Hermione felt like the worst sort of failure, the Horcrux murmuring gently against the base of her skull: _What a waste of his time, teaching you to hide your thoughts. What a tremendous, absurd, monumental waste you are._

The relief now at having the Horcrux off was nowhere near as profound as it would have been weeks earlier. There was still a heaviness to Hermione's limbs, as though she were being weighted to the bed by a stack of wet wool blankets. Suffocating. She curled her fingers around the pendant, felt its cool edge press against her palm.

Severus barely spoke to her anymore. Several days earlier, the same night she'd ended things with Ron, Hermione had sent him a message and he hadn't responded for nearly two days. Two days in which Hermione felt the oppressive buzz of Ron's anger like a tangible thing filling the space between them in the tent, which suddenly felt far too small. Two days in which she imagined the worst-Severus' loyalties discovered, Severus tortured, Severus dead. It wasn't until Harry unfolded the Marauder's Map one afternoon, tracking Ginny's little dot with hungry eyes while Ron and Hermione looked over his shoulder, careful not to stand close enough to one another that their own shoulders might touch, that Hermione finally saw Severus' dot moving down a corridor and into the Great Hall and knew that, physically at least, he was okay. That reassurance was almost immediately tempered by the knowledge that, if he was all right physically, he was _choosing_ not to talk to her. The thought made her feel terribly alone, a feeling that was not much alleviated by his eventual message: _I am fine. Thank you for letting me know about your change of location._ And nothing else.

Since then, he hadn't taken the initiative to contact her once, and his replies to her messages were short to the point of curtness.

What had she done? Why didn't he want to talk to her anymore?

She pulled the covers over her head.

When was this all going to end?

* * *

Tonight it was easier than it had been, lately, for Hermione concentrate on the books in her lap. Well, it would be with a belly full of meaty spaghetti; with the sugary sweetness of tinned pears lingering on her tongue. She'd nearly been discovered at the Tesco in the village near their latest camp site when, out of sheer desperation, she and Harry agreed she should go in under his Invisibility Cloak and filch some food. They'd been unable to find anything of real substance for several days, and the lightheadedness Hermione felt as she wove through the crowded supermarket, trying to avoid accidental contact with any of the other shoppers, was as much from hunger as nervousness.

Hermione traced the symbol on the page in front of her with the tip of one finger. One, two, three lines to form an equilateral triangle. Another line straight down. Swoop in a circle.

Grindelwald's mark.

_Dumbledore,_ she thought, brows drawn down in a scowl, _what the hell were you trying to tell us?_

Harry was still watching her. "Hermione?" he said. ++

"Hmm?" ++

"I've been thinking. I-I want to go to Godric's Hollow." ++

Hermione looked up. A part of her had known this was coming. Of course Harry wanted to go to Godric's Hollow. And part of her wanted to go there, herself. They had to do something, after all; they couldn't keep wandering aimlessly about the country, avoiding detection but not actually doing anything to further their true goal. They would run mad if they didn't do something. And Godric's Hollow seemed as likely a place as any for Dumbledore to have hidden Gryffindor's sword.

She said as much now, raising her eyebrows when Harry seemed shocked that Gryffindor himself had come from the area in question.

As they talked, she felt excitement swell inside her chest for the first time in countless weeks. They were going to _do something._ They were being proactive. They had a _plan._

And if there was a touch of unease niggling at the base of her skull, she chose, for the moment, to ignore it.

* * *

The holiday feast felt like a mockery this year, a scene of stilted cheer. Severus, who had never much cared for Christmas, had nevertheless been oddly glad when Hagrid stumped into his office one evening early in December, twisting his hat in his hands and looking everywhere except at Severus' face.

"I was wonderin', Headmaster," he said cagily, "if yeh wouldn' object ter me bringin' in some trees fer decoratin'. Professor Flitwick said he'd be happy to Charm somethin' pretty fer 'em."

Severus cleared his throat to hide its sudden catch. "I see no reason why not. Just tell Filius not to make the decorations too" -his lips twisted into a semblance of a sneer- "gaudy."

Something shifted behind Hagrid's eyes, a sharpness that Severus generally would not have associated with the half-giant. There was a strange, significant silence between them for a moment, and then Hagrid spoke.

"Too bad Neville an' the others already served those detentions yeh set 'em with me," he said, staring at something fascinating just over Severus' shoulder. "I could've used their help gettin' the trees."

Severus gazed at him silently for several seconds. _Hagrid knows,_ he thought, not sure why he was so certain, only that he was. Of all his former colleagues, it never occurred to Severus that _Hagrid,_ he of the Gryffindor bravery and Dumbledore worship and slower-than-average thought processes would be the one to discern his loyalties. He fought down a sick, hysterical desire to laugh.

"Take them," he said, several beats too late. He looked up into the other man's broad, bearded face until Hagrid's gaze finally flicked down to meet his. "They're troublemakers of the worst sort; no doubt they shall continue making trouble unless they are kept… otherwise occupied. Take them and use them whenever and however you wish."

Hagrid had kept his expression blank for a long moment, then cupped one big palm over his mouth to hide the smile growing there.

"Yes, Headmaster," he'd said, having the audacity to wink before leaving Severus' office.

The encounter only worsened the constant, gnawing anxiety in the pit of Severus' stomach, but more than two weeks passed without incident-and without any other indication from the groundskeeper that anything had changed. And now, the feast was upon them. Severus stared pensively at the fairy lights strung through the branches of the largest tree, toying with his fork but not raising more than a bite or two to his lips.

The few students who had remained at the school, at least, seemed to be enjoying the food, the house-elves having produced more varieties of pudding than Severus knew existed. To his left, the Carrows were chortling to each other and drinking too deeply from their goblets; Severus chose not to reprimand them, hoping vaguely that they might drink themselves to sleep. To his right, Minerva was admiring the scarf she had received from Pomona, hand-knitted in Gryffindor red and gold pseudo-tartan. When Albus was Headmaster, the teachers generally pooled their Galleons to buy him a good bottle of mead or a ridiculous hat from Madame Malkin's. Severus was no stranger to being largely overlooked during the holidays, but the contrast was striking. He felt angry and foolish and slightly ill. Thinking about Christmas presents, of all things. _Pathetic bloody wanker, have some fucking perspective._

Abruptly, Severus grabbed his goblet and drained his wine. Then, uncaring how he appeared-_no one paying attention anyway_-he slumped back in his chair, hands dangling over the edges of the armrests, and glowered out over the hall. Soon enough, the meal would be over and he would be free to return to his quarters. To turn on the wireless and sit with his feet propped on the coffee table, a drink cradled in his hands, and listen to the scratchy in-and-out reception.

_Potterwatch._

The word was on the lips of every third student at Hogwarts. Severus had taken to casting _Muffliato_ and listening to the program obsessively in the evenings; never had he thought there might be a day when he would be profoundly thankful to hear the Weasley twins' voices, but the knowledge that the Order was still resisting, that others were working to undermine the Dark Lord's influence, that he wasn't all alone in this was a deeper comfort than he could have imagined. Isolated as he was at Hogwarts, it was easy to feel that he was alone, particularly now his surreal, clandestine conversations with Hermione had all but stopped. He scarcely knew what to say to her, now that he knew about her and Weasley. The thought of her sent a brief rush of pain to his temple and Severus closed his eyes for a moment. The less responsive he was to her messages, the fewer and farther between her communications became; often there were days between them, and he was left to wonder if she was-

Who the fuck was he kidding? He didn't listen to Potterwatch because it gave him hope. He listened, ulcer burning and heart trying to strangle him, for news of her death.

* * *

"Make it stop, make it-oh God-stop-"

Hermione couldn't breathe. She tried-struggled-couldn't even gasp. Off to the right, Harry was screaming. He sounded like-agony. Panic rose in a swooping wave, but still Hermione couldn't get her breath. She was on her face in the snow. Scraped palms, bruised knees, wet clothes. In her terror, in her haste to get them out of Godric's Hollow and away from Nagini and Voldemort, she'd screwed up the landing of her desperate Apparition, with Harry riding side-along, and had landed hard enough to knock the air from her lungs.

_Can't breathe-_

"Shit! Ah, God, please-"

_Please-_

With a stutter, her lungs began working. Hands braced against the slushy ground, Hermione took in short, shallow breaths until finally-finally-she was able to fill her chest.

"Just-stop-_please_ stop, _ohgodfuckpleaseplease-"_

"Harry," she whispered, pushing herself to her feet. Her friend was a writhing dark mass a couple of feet away; he must have rolled when she let go after they landed. She bent over him, muttering a hasty, _"Lumos."_ Her hands were shaking. Her entire body was shaking. Harry was thrashing too much for her to get a good look at him, and his screams were growing increasingly incoherent. Finally, in desperation, Hermione Petrified him, praying that doing so wouldn't cause any more damage.

It was easy to see what was the matter, then. Immobilized, Harry had ended up with one arm draped across his stomach, the fabric of his sleeve torn. Shifting aside the ragged edges, Hermione felt a rush of terror-two deep, round puncture wounds marred the skin of his forearm.

_Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God-_

Okay, she had to think. _Think._3 Venomous snakebite. Poison. No anti-venin, and it mightn't be the right kind even if she did have some. Poison-

_"Accio bezoar!"_ she said, aiming her wand at her beaded bag. A bezoar whooshed from the bag's drawstring mouth, plopping to the damp ground beside her lap. Hermione put a hand on Harry's shoulder.

"I'm going to cancel the spell-try not to move-" she said, voice too shrill, uncertain if he could hear or understand her at all. She un-Petrified him and he sort of shuddered before squeezing his eyes shut, a high, painful noise working its way up from his throat. Quickly, Hermione shoved the bezoar into his open mouth, pushing it as far back as she could with her fingers. Harry's teeth scraped her knuckles as she withdrew her hand, and he made a choked noise before swallowing. And then the keening began again, working its way up to a horrendous wail as Harry's hands came up, scrabbling at his chest and throat as Hermione looked on, horrified.

"No!" he was saying. "No-get it-off-_off-"_

_The Horcrux._ It must have reacted to Voldemort's proximity or… something. In an instant, Hermione had Harry Petrified again. She dropped her wand to the ground, unzipped his Muggle jacket, and unbuttoned the flannel shirt he wore underneath. She reached the for the locket-and shrieked when it refused to budge. The thing was-_fused_ to Harry's skin.

Harry didn't even seem to know she was there, his howls growing increasingly incoherent. Okay. She had to get the locket off of him. Oh God. Okay. Okay. _Okay-_

Tugging at it proved useless. Hermione was panting, trying without much success to stay calm. She couldn't think of a charm that would remove it painlessly. There had to be one. There had to-

Harry wrapped his fingers around the chain, yanking at it, rolling his head back and forth. Screaming. Shit. _Shit._ No time to think, no time, no _time-_

_Stop it._ Taking several deep breaths, Hermione closed her eyes and erected her Occlumency Shields. When she opened her eyes again, it was easy to Petrify Harry once more-he ended up frozen with his face contorted into an expression of agony-and to use a slow, careful Severing Charm to separate the locket from the delicate skin of her friend's chest. It was gruesome work, little rivulets of blood running down his ribcage, staining his open shirt, but Hermione didn't stop until the Horcrux was free. She dropped it into her bag, feeling vaguely disgusted; she had no intention to let either of them wearing the damn thing ever again. Then she Summoned a little vial of Dittany from the bag and began dripping it onto the punctures on Harry's arm and the rather dreadful, meandering scar on his chest. Only then, once she'd buttoned his blood-crusted shirt and zipped his jacket to keep out the worst of the cold, did Hermione drop her Shields-_Don't use them too long, you've seen what it does to Severus_-and free Harry from the Petrification spell.

He opened his eyes and worked his jaw for a moment before focusing on her and croaking, "Hermione?"

"It's okay, Harry," she said. But it wasn't-oh God, it wasn't, for there on the ground was Harry's wand and it was _broken,_ she could see that even in the darkness, snapped in two with only a dangling, bent portion of its phoenix feather core holding the two ends together.

"Oh no," Hermione whispered. _Nononononono_…. The shared cores-how could Harry block Voldemort without their wands' shared cores?

"What-" Harry began, but he didn't finish the thought; a moment later, his eyes rolled back and he lay still; Hermione would have panicked utterly had she not been able to see the rapid rise and fall of his chest by the thin light of her wand. She sat back on her heels, heart pounding. Despite the cold, her skin was covered in a light film of sweat.

"Okay," she whispered to herself. "Okay." She was suddenly very aware of the sounds all around them. An owl hooted; a twig snapped somewhere behind her. Hermione leapt to her feet; now the initial fear for Harry's life had passed, a new fear had emerged-what if, somehow, the snake, or Voldemort himself, had followed them? Stupid, stupid to have left them so vulnerable for so long. She stuffed the broken ends of Harry's wand into her pocket and began racing in a wide rough circle around Harry's prone form, erecting the wards that would-_please_-keep them hidden.

The tent took only a moment to set up, they'd done it so often now. Hermione Levitated Harry onto his bunk and bundled blankets over him, then pulled up a stool and sat down, her legs feeling abruptly watery. She closed her eyes, her mind filled with flashing images-the bright cheeriness of Godric's Hollow, looking like a Christmas card village, juxtaposed with the sensation of utter wrongness when they first beheld poor Bathilda Bagshot; the abandoned dustiness of her house; the horror of that snake striking.

They had come so very close to dying.

Hermione inhaled a deep breath and looked at Harry. He seemed to be sleeping peacefully, now, his breathing regular. She touched his forehead, and was relieved to find it cool. He was going to be okay.

But she was still restless and shaking. After a moment, she gave in to her urge to move and began to pace up and down the length of the tent. Harry had nearly died-they both had nearly died, really-and it was all for nothing. They were no closer to finding the locations of the remaining Horcruxes, or to destroying the one they had, than they had been before. And now the last of the Dittany was gone, and she'd used a lot of the Blood Replenisher on Ron, back when he'd Splinched after their escape from the Ministry. And they were out of Bezoars. And Harry's wand was broken.

She couldn't do this anymore. _Could not._ Her breathing sped up until she was gasping rather than inhaling, she was hyperventilating, and when did she start crying, crying didn't help anything-

She hadn't removed her cloak, and it flapped around her like Severus' robes. _Severus._ Hermione abruptly stopped pacing, her heart hammering in her chest, an idea forming even as her common sense told her it was stupid, reckless and stupid, she shouldn't do it, shouldn't-

"_Accio_ Dreamless Sleep!" she said, and caught the little bottle-the only potion she'd brought with her that was _not_ depleted-in the palm of her hand. She looked at Harry. He was twitching restlessly; perhaps he was in pain? Surely giving him Dreamless Sleep would be a kindness… And she could… She could see…

She unstopped the bottle before her rational mind could talk her out of it. A few drops would ensure that Harry was out for hours.

* * *

Severus was sitting by the fire in his quarters and flipping through a stack of disciplinary requests from his staff-_Happy fucking Christmas, indeed_-when his pendant burned gently against his chest. He froze, eyes flicking to the clock on the mantlepiece. It was late. Moving with deliberate slowness, as though there were someone else in the room who might notice his suddenly trembling fingers, he set aside the paperwork and reached under his dressing gown and nightshirt. Just as casually, he enlarged the pendant to its notebook form-and felt his heart stutter and stop when he saw what was written on the most recent page.

_I'm at the gates. May I come in?_

He stared at the words for nearly a full minute, unable to fully comprehend them. At the gates? At _Hogwarts'_ gates? What the hell was she playing at? And, on the heels of that thought-perhaps it wasn't _her_ at all.

His stomach seemed to try to swoop in dread at the same time that his heart rose in stupid, stupid hope, leaving him with a distinct feeling of nausea. This couldn't be happening.

"Are you mad? Why are you here?" he asked, and the words were a growl, his knuckles white against the ebony wood of his wand.

_I just-it's been a terrible… I need help._

There was a tinny ringing in Severus' head that was making it impossible to think clearly. A question. He had to ask a question to determine her-to determine the messenger's identity.

_Think, dammit, bloody_ think.

"What did-" His mouth was dry. He licked his lips and tried again. "What did you… do… the last time we saw each other?"

The seconds ticked past, feeling very long. In hindsight, there were several possible answers to his question-she'd confessed what she'd done to her parents, she'd sobbed, she'd let him touch her wrist. But the thing at the forefront of Severus' mind was-

_I kissed you._

"I'll be right there," he said.

* * *

_A/N: As always, a great big thank-you to my beta, Ivy Amelia! Part two of the chapter to follow :-)_


	22. Passionate kisses of parting (pt 2)

_Standard disclaimer applies. _

* * *

Severus flew across the grounds, heedless of the cold and the snow that was falling heavily around him. The gates were a dark blur far below him, and he was grateful for the Disillusionment Charm he'd cast before leaving his tower when he executed a clumsy landing, slipping on the snowy earth and nearly falling flat on his arse. Steadying himself, he murmured, _"Homenum revelio,"_ and saw a brief flash of blue light just outside the scrolled ironwork, accompanied by a faint, corresponding tingle in his wand hand. He canceled the Disillusionment spell and stepped forward, tapping the gates with his wand to open them.

Were it not for her footprints in the snow, Severus would not have known Hermione had entered the grounds until she brushed against his arm, sending a flare of warmth through his entire body. "Follow me, and keep close," he said, voice low. "If we are seen, remain perfectly still-let no sound betray your presence. And do not remove that cloak until we are in the privacy of my quarters."

"Of course," she whispered back, her tone a mixture of exhaustion and how-stupid-do-you-think-I-am.

He listened to the crunch of her footfalls behind him as he made his way back to the castle. Anxiety made his mouth taste of bile-this was folly, this was madness, what was he thinking to allow her in the castle?-but they made it to the moving staircase without incident, and Severus could feel Hermione as a warm presence one step below him for the entire, interminable ride to his office. Inside, the portraits were awake and curious, having witnessed his departure through the window, the first broom-less flight he had taken since the Dark Lord imbued him with the power many months earlier. Severus ignored them, keeping his face turned pointedly away from Albus. He held the door to his sitting room open behind him until he felt the sweep of fabric against his body as she edged past; once he'd closed and warded it, he remained staring at the heavy wood for several breaths before he gathered the courage to turn and face her, his heart beating with such ferocity in his chest that he was certain she must be able to hear it.

She had dropped Potter's Invisibility Cloak and stood with her wand clutched in one fist and an indefinable expression on her face. She looked exhausted and unhealthy, shadows in the deep hollows of her cheeks and under her eyes, her hair wild and tangled and brittle. Severus stared at her, suddenly incapable of breathing. She truly was here. It seemed impossible; a dream. So many months, and now she was here, and he, Severus, was utterly incapable of forming an intelligent thought, much less speaking.

Hermione shifted. "I-ah-Happy Christmas," she said, and then put her hands over her face. "Oh my God" -an edge of hysteria in her voice- "what a stupid thing to say."

"I cannot-" Severus cleared his throat. "I cannot think of anything more appropriate, myself."

She let her hands drop away from her face, but did not quite meet his eyes. There were damp tracks on her cheeks. Severus resisted the urge to wipe them away with his thumbs.

"I guess-I guess, 'I'm happy to see you' works, too," she said, but her voice went up at the end, turning the words into a question.

Severus felt his face burn, and was glad she was not looking directly at him. The words nearly stuck in his throat, a ridiculous nervousness overcoming him, but he forced them out. "I am very happy to see you," he said.

Now she did look at him, her expression one of undisguised hope. "Really? I wasn't sure you'd let me in."

"I probably should not have. I nearly did not. It is… lunacy." With two other Death Eaters on staff, Albus' portrait a closed door away from them, and no way of predicting when the Dark Lord might choose to make an impromptu visit… He had not come to Hogwarts since the night before classes began, nor had he required Severus' presence at his side. Knowing how important the students' indoctrination was to the Dark Lord, Severus was unsurprised that he was allowing his one-time spy to focus his energies on running the school. But it would be Sod's Law that he would visit tonight of all nights.

"Then why-"

Severus looked at her. "You said you needed my help."

"Oh," she breathed, looking like she might start crying again. She swiped at her eyes with the back of one hand. "Sorry. I… it's just…"

He took an involuntary step forward, one hand outstretched-to do what, he didn't know-and then somehow she was against him, her fingers pressing into the flesh of his sides, her nose bumping against his chest, and she was weeping, her body shaking with the force of it. For a helpless moment Severus stood frozen, and then, tentatively, he wrapped his arms around her back and buried his face in her hair. Her hair smelled… unclean, somehow, and even through her layers of clothing he could tell that she was far too thin.

"Calm down," he murmured into the top of her head. "Calm down. I-I'm here."

Hermione hitched a sob, gasping into his armpit, and Severus felt the sudden, utterly inappropriate stirring of an erection. Mortified, he jerked back from her, desperate to put distance between their bodies before she noticed, then tried to cover the movement by ushering her towards the settee. "Sit down," he said, and sat at the opposite end, crossing one leg over the other, feeling unhinged.

Hermione looked down at her hands, fingers laced tightly together in her lap. She appeared at once vulnerable and hardened, childish and far too old, and Severus felt hopelessly out of his depth.

"Tea," he snapped, and moments later a tray with tea and biscuits appeared on the table before them. Severus busied himself pouring out two cups. "Milk? Sugar?" he asked, glancing at Hermione, who was looking at him as though the scene felt as surreal to her as it did to him.

"Please," she managed, and when he handed her the cup she wrapped her palms around it, trying to warm them. Severus passed the plate of biscuits to her and watched as she snatched one up; it was gone within seconds, and she had already bitten into another before she seemed to recollect herself, her cheeks burning.

"Sorry," she said, not meeting his eyes. "I-we-haven't had a great deal to eat."

Something seized in Severus' chest, and he swallowed hard, uncertain what to say. Finally, when the silence between them had stretched uncomfortably taut, he managed the obvious question, his tone rougher than he intended.

"What has happened?"

* * *

Hermione exhaled a breath, staring into her tea cup. It was bone china, she noticed, far more delicate than anything she'd have imagined Severus choosing. It must have been Dumbledore's. Or maybe this was just what Hogwarts' teachers were always given; the student mugs, of course, were made of sturdier stuff. She'd had only a brief glimpse of his office on their way through to his quarters, but it was clear he had changed a great deal. In here… Hermione raised her head, looking around. She'd only been in this room once before, for that Order meeting when she and Severus had sat, sides pressed together, on this very settee, but she could tell he had made changes here, as well. There were no gaudy ornaments, and she was fairly certain the upholstery had been yellow rather than navy. She flicked a glance at Severus, who was watching her with obvious impatience.

"Um." Where to begin? Now that she had to explain herself, Hermione felt that any explanation must be inadequate. What was she thinking, coming here? _"I was afraid. Freaking out. I wanted to be near you."_ Right. And she'd left Harry Potter alone and injured and come to a school controlled by Death Eaters. That was brilliant.

Severus took a sip from his cup, watching her over the rim. Hermione licked her lips.

_Focus._

"I-we need potions," she said. She dropped her eyes to her lap. Her fingers were shaking against the cup. "I used the last of our Dittany on Harry. The last bezoar, too. And, um. It seems like we shouldn't be without healing potions. We've already needed them a few times. And obviously I can't go to Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley-"

"Obviously."

Hermione subsided; there was an edge to his voice that she couldn't read. There was a long silence, awkwardly long, and she felt panic lapping about her heart.

Finally, he asked, "So, you are here for… potions." She nodded, cheeks flushing as he watched her. "Because you used yours up." She nodded again. "How?"

"The snake," Hermione said. She stared into the fire. "It bit Harry, nearly got me..."

A strangled sound came from Severus' throat, and she glanced at him.

"He's okay," she said quickly. "I mean, it was a near thing, but luckily I had-I had a bezoar and… We went to Godric's Hollow." Severus opened his mouth, expression thunderous, and she shook her head to forestall his censure. "I know, I know it was stupid, but you've no idea-" Her voice was pleading, but she didn't care- "we didn't know what else to do. And it's my fault, of course Harry wanted to go there, and I'm glad he got to see his parents' graves and-but I shouldn't ever have agreed. I let myself believe we might find answers there, that Dumbledore might have… but we didn't, and now Harry's wand is broken and I used up our medical supplies and I just-I just don't know what to do. I don't know what to do."

Severus was staring at her, his mouth slightly open. Hermione looked at him-his hair was longer, the unkempt tips of it brushing his chest, and his face seemed more deeply lined than she remembered. For the first time since he'd appeared before her at the gates, she took in his state of dress-or rather, of undress. Apparently he'd thought to put boots on, at least, before coming down to the grounds to collect her, but he hadn't taken the time to change out of his nightclothes. Hermione felt warmed by this, in a way she tried not to dwell on, just as she tried not to stare at the hem of the threadbare nightshirt peeking from beneath his dressing gown, or the pale triangle of naked chest that was visible about the gown's overlapping collar. She flushed and lowered her eyes; his calves were thin and hairy. When she glanced back at his face, it was burning red, and he crossed one leg over the other as though he'd been reading her thoughts.

Hermione was seized by a desperate desire to kiss him again, a true kiss this time. To plunder that incredible mind of his so that together they could figure out the location of the bloody Horcruxes. She wanted to lie naked, pressed against _Severus_ in the aftermath of their lovemaking, and to fall asleep that way, tangled together, in the middle of a whispered conversation.

She wanted, she wanted, she _wanted._

"Why-why did you stop talking to me?" she whispered.

Severus started. "I have not-"

"You _have._ I mean, you still respond to my messages sometimes, but it's not… not like it was. Not like it matters."

He held himself stiffly. "It matters," he said.

Hermione's breath stuttered. "Then why?"

"I have had a great deal to do," he said. Hermione opened her mouth, but he cut her off, watching his hands as they turned his teacup around and around. "As," he said, his tone casual, "have you."

Hermione's eyes narrowed. What did he-? But abruptly, Severus set his cup down and rose to his feet.

"Are Misters Potter and Weasley aware of your whereabouts?" he asked.

Startled, Hermione said, "Then you don't know." She closed her eyes in a brief, silent prayer of thanks to whatever deity might be listening. It wasn't a sure thing, of course, but if Severus hadn't heard that Ron was dead, it was likely the berk was still alive, somewhere.

"Know what?" Severus asked. Hermione opened her eyes to find him scowling at her.

"Ron left us," she said, tracing one finger along the edge of the sofa cushion. "Awhile ago, now."

_"What?"_ Severus said. He looked stunned, and furious, and oh, it was so good to see him Hermione ached with it. "He _left?_ That idiotic, selfish-where did he go? And-_why?" _

"I have no idea where he went," Hermione said. She shrugged, striving for casualness but suspecting she'd failed miserably. Severus frowned. "As for why… A lot of things, I guess. A lot of it was my-my fault. Because… well, that doesn't matter. And we're not… we're not really having a whole lot of success with-with what we're doing. It's wearing on all of us, but Ron… well, there's this…" She stopped and ducked her head. Dammit, how much could she say? "Dark magic," she said finally, inadequately. "There is, er, this dark magic, and it had more of an influence on Ron than on Harry or me."

"Dark…" Severus pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't suppose you could be any more specific?"

She inhaled sharply. "Are we… are we trading secrets, now?"

The look he gave her was devastating in its vulnerability, a vulnerability he neatly covered by snapping, "I don't fucking _know,_ do I? There is no way to know." He leaned forward, eyes closed, and rested his forehead on his knees.

No way to know whether, in trying to make things better they wouldn't make a cock-up of whatever Dumbledore's grand plan was. If such a thing even existed. Hermione felt despair return, crushing the air from her chest. She sucked in quick, short breaths of air. She didn't know how she and Harry could continue on their own, and, looking at Severus, she thought perhaps he, too, was floundering. With his head bent forward the candlelight made new threads of silver gleam amidst the otherwise black strands of his hair. She felt a stinging at the backs of her eye sockets, looking at his hair, looking at the sharp top knob of his spine above his dressing gown's collar. She shook her head, hard, as though to deny… something. Something hard, and fundamental, and terrifying.

"How did Dark magic make Weasley leave?" Severus asked, his voice muffled by his knees.

"It… it's suggestive," Hermione said carefully. "It plays with your mind and magnifies every single awful thought you have. It wants… it feels like it's stripped your soul bare and taken the worst bits and stretched them until they cover anything good you've ever been or ever done." Severus slowly raised his head and looked at her with dawning horror. Hermione's mouth went dry. "And," she said hastily, "he couldn't handle any of it, I guess, and he… left." She stopped talking before she gave away anything more, though she could feel the words crowding behind her teeth, clamoring to be let out.

"But-" There was something odd, choked, about the way Severus stopped himself, and she looked up sharply. Two bright spots burned high on his cheeks.

"But what?" she said.

He looked away from her, opened his mouth, closed it again. When he turned to face her once more, his dark eyes were burning with something like anger, and Hermione felt a quick stab of apprehension.

"You and he-Weasley. You are…" He waved one hand back and forth, oddly.

Shock kept Hermione from speaking for several seconds. "How did you know?" she finally asked. Her voice was barely audible to her own ears, but Severus clearly heard, his upper lip drawing into a familiar sneer.

"Six years in this castle, and you still manage to forget that portraits have nothing better to do than snoop in on others'… _activities."_ Hermione felt herself blanch, and Severus affected an expression of nonchalance.

"Do remember to close your bag next time you wish to engage in intercourse," he said, and Hermione felt simultaneous surges of anger and humiliation that sent her right back to the Potions classroom. Severus made to leave the room.

"I shall go myself to gather the potions you need," he said, then stood waiting, thin-lipped, until Hermione realized he expected her to speak.

"Oh," she said, her voice thin and strange. "Um… Blood-replenisher. Dittany. Some bezoars, if you have them. Ah, probably Burn Paste, too… Skele-Gro and Calming Draught? We didn't have those but they might be useful…"

He was giving her an unreadable look again, but he merely nodded when it was apparent she'd come to the end of her list. He turned to go.

"I'll be back shortly. And…" He stopped at the door, not-quite-looking at her over his shoulder. "I shall send an elf in with something of substance for you to eat." Without waiting for a response, he was gone.

* * *

Poppy was, thank Merlin, nowhere to be seen when Severus slipped into the Hospital Wing. The room was darkened, and only one bed had a curtain drawn around it. Keeping silent, Severus made short work of collecting the vials Hermione required from the store room, then made his way back through the silent halls to his quarters.

His thoughts were disconnected and slippery. He kept remembering Hermione's face when he confronted her about Weasley, the shock and hurt in her eyes and the dark smudges under them. She looked so very unhealthy. And she had come to him for help and he had… He was a bastard. He was a fool. He was going to lose her entirely, lose her to his wounded pride, and yet he couldn't think of words to say to mend the rift between them. The very idea of Hermione and that wanker together made him feel physically ill; he was doomed, it seemed, to want women who did not want him in return. He ground his teeth together, feeling impotent and absurd.

He had lost Lily's friendship for many reasons-in part because her relationship with James Potter forced Severus to realize that she would never want such a thing with him. And now, with the hard-won wisdom that came from all the intervening years…

_No._ Severus shook his head, almost angrily, as he forced his own train of thought to derail. It wasn't experience or age or anything of that sort that had made him acknowledge, in the most private recesses of his own thoughts, that Lily had never been a true friend to him, not really. No. It was Hermione-Hermione, in whose mind and company he had found comfort and acceptance. Hermione, who, difficult as it was to believe, truly cared for him, even it was not in the way Severus wished. It was her unlikely offering of friendship, despite all that she knew about him, despite the things she had seen in her forays into _his_ mind, which proved to him how very shallow Lily's feelings for him had been.

He hesitated when he reached the stone gargoyle, drawing the edges of his dressing gown more firmly across his chest, wishing he had taken the time to put on some decent clothing before retrieving the potions. But time was of the essence, with Potter alone wherever it was he and Hermione were staying. Gods above, this wasn't right; he felt in the marrow of his bones that it wasn't right. First Hermione and Potter and Weasley had infiltrated the Death Eater-controlled Ministry, only barely avoiding capture, and now she and Potter had blundered their way into one of the Dark Lord's traps. Severus reached up and touched his pendant with his thumb, pressing until it almost hurt.

Severus had hurt _her,_ he knew now, when he gave nothing but lame excuses regarding the curtness of his replies to her messages, and he did not-he did not wish to hurt her, anymore. She was splintering, and it was terrifying to see; he was a selfish bastard for having abandoned her in such a way.

He and Hermione had defied the old man once, already, by Charming their pendants. Twice, really, for they had maintained contact with one another even before that, despite Albus' insistence that their friendship was a danger to the Light's cause. Their defiance had kept Severus far more together than he would otherwise have been; without someone to whom he could reach out when the fear and isolation were too much, he would have come apart entirely long ago. He had no illusions on that count. Perhaps if they defied Dumbledore again, if they chose to work together rather than separately toward their shared goal, they might actually win the war. Severus' pulse pounded in his ears.

It would mean telling her about Potter. About Potter's destiny, his true role in the fight. Severus tightened his lips. She had to know eventually; this way, at least, he might have some help convincing Potter of what he had to do. That he had to die. The boy Severus had sworn to protect, the best friend of the only person who had ever truly given a damn about him. He straightened his spine, and had to force himself not to erect his Shields. For this conversation, he had to be fully present. He owed her that, at least.

He spoke the password, and the gargoyle moved aside with a hideous grimace.

* * *

Hermione ate the meal the House-elf delivered far too quickly, her mother's voice in her head the entire time, admonishing her for her appalling lack of manners. But oh-roast beef and green beans and mashed parsnips, and then the most delicious Christmas cake she had ever tasted, rich with fruit and nuts and decadently soaked in brandy. She actually felt rather ill when she was through, and for a dreadful moment thought the entire meal might come back up again, but instead it settled heavily, warmly in her stomach. She leaned closer to the fire and closed her eyes.

_Severus knows._

It shouldn't matter-Hermione's relationships were, really, none of his business, after all-but somehow it did matter very much, indeed. He had seemed… unsettled. Flustered. Jealous, even, which was ridiculous because he hadn't even reacted when she kissed him at Grimmauld Place. And he-he was in love with Harry's mum. A beautiful, intelligent, perfect dead woman.

The door to the headmaster's office creaked behind her and Hermione's eyes flew open. She twisted around where she sat on the settee, wand at the ready and a jinx half-formed on her lips, then gasped with relief to see only Severus.

"Here," he said, crossing the room. He stopped before her and emptied his dressing gown's pockets of several vials and jars, setting them on the coffee table.

It was difficult to look at him directly, somehow, but she forced herself to do so anyway, gathering the potions together and putting them in her beaded bag. "Thank you," she said.

Severus crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Yes," he said, and cleared his throat. "I… ought not to have spoken to you the way I did earlier. It was… inappropriate. And not conducive to-that is, we have much to discuss, and little time, and to be perfectly frank, I've no wish for what might well be your last impression of me to be so-"

Hermione had been staring at him throughout this bizarre speech, watching a muscle twitching in his jaw and the way his fingers gripped his elbows. He stopped talking when she stood abruptly, her heart beating quite fast even though she actually, suddenly, felt rather calm. She met Severus' eyes.

"I nearly died tonight," she said.

He was seemingly at a loss for words-something Hermione would have had trouble imagining when she was still his student. She took advantage of it now, however, to close the distance between them until her filthy trainers and his boots were toe-to-toe.

"I nearly died tonight," she repeated. "And that seems to have rather put things in perspective."

Severus' Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed. "Indeed?" he said.

"Yeah." Hermione swallowed, too. "I didn't come here just because I needed potions," she said.

Severus' eyes narrowed, but he didn't respond, and Hermione forced herself to speak before her nerve deserted her.

"I came here because I needed-because I needed you. I can't tell you how frightening tonight was-how awful these past weeks have been, really, and, well, you were the person I wanted when it all… broke."

Severus' face remained impassive. Once, not so very long ago, that would have intimidated Hermione, but right now, tonight, it didn't matter that she couldn't read him. Very little mattered, really, except that she might never see him again, never hear him bumble his way through an unexpected apology after being thoroughly horrid. Never get the chance to notice the way he watched her, concern in the line between his eyebrows.

"I'm sorry," Hermione said, though she wasn't, not really. "I know this is probably not something you want to hear, but-well, like you just said, this might the l-last time we see each other so…" She shrugged awkwardly.

His mouth was hanging very slightly open, showing his terrible teeth. He saw her looking and closed his mouth with a click, glancing away from her. "I do not believe I entirely understand your meaning," he said.

_Oh, God._ Hermione took a deep breath. "I mean-you're-you're the person I-want. When things are bad. Except that's not right, really, because even when things were-were good, I wanted you then, too. I just… want you." She exhaled a shaky laugh. "All the time."

Severus' eyes flew to hers, his entire being radiating disbelief. "I-you-I must be misunderstanding you," he said; his voice cracked on the last word. "You and Weasley are-"

"Over," she said. "We're over. That is, I ended things a few days before he left. I think-I think that must be partly why he left. He and I, we're friends but-I realized I didn't feel right, with him. Not the way I… well. I just realized he wasn't what I want. What I need." She flushed. "Again, I-I wanted you."

"I see." Severus' expression was guarded, and Hermione realized that she had been lying to herself when she thought she was convinced there was no hope of him returning her feelings, for she could feel, at that moment, the withering of the tiny bud of hope she must have been guarding secretly somewhere under her ribs.

"I shouldn't have said anything," she said, backing several steps away from him. "I know that you're-that Harry's mum is your… I'm sorry." And now she truly was; it felt as though she was fighting for air, her lungs refusing to work properly.

But then Severus was there, right in front of her again, and he had reached out to tip her chin up and force her to look at him. Hermione resisted at first, and then he said, "May I? Please-I need to know-" and then he was inside of her, and she had to focus all of her energy on not slamming her Shields down.

He was exceedingly gentle and didn't pry into her memories, just remained very still inside her mind and allowed himself to feel what she was feeling. Then he slipped out again, and stood before her with his hands hanging loosely at his sides and his face full of fear.

"I want…"

Hermione whispered, "Yes?" He lunged for her, taking hold of her shoulders and peering down into her face; but there he stopped as if frozen, looking frustrated. Hermione's heart fluttered about in her chest like a mad thing, but that was nothing compared to the pounding of his heart, which she could actually _hear._ Severus' fingers tightened around her upper arms, almost to the point of pain, his eyes searching hers, gaze intense; and then his eyes dropped to her mouth and he muttered, "Sod it," and kissed her.

His kiss was inexperienced, all teeth and great hooked nose getting in the way, and he pulled back almost immediately, face flushed, all but shoving Hermione away from him. "I-" he began, but she was breathless and impatient, and grabbed him by the collar of his dressing gown.

"Again," she breathed, and stood on her toes to reach his mouth with hers. She tilted her head, angling her chin just so, reaching up to cup his face in her hands. His skin was warm and scratchy with stubble, and after a moment Severus' hands came up hesitantly to cradle the back of her head. When Hermione opened her mouth, she felt his groan in her toes.

When they broke apart, Severus was panting, his fingers tangled in her hair. He bent his head until their brows were touching, and closed his eyes. Hermione let her hands fall from his cheeks, but only as far as his shoulders, which she clutched tightly, feeling dazed and unsteady.

Finally, Severus gave a sigh and straightened, pulling away from her. "As… pleasant as this is," he said, with a small, uncertain smile, "we have much to discuss."

Hermione nodded slowly. It felt as though an age had passed since he returned with the potions, but in reality it had only been a few minutes. But she needed to return to Harry.

* * *

Severus felt like a schoolboy when he reached for her hand to lead her to the settee, bumbling and unsure of himself. Her hand was very small compared to his, and very warm. He released it reluctantly when they had seated themselves and then wished that he hadn't, for he suddenly had no idea what to do with his own hands, which seemed disturbingly large and ungainly, dangling as they were from his wrists.

He forced himself to focus. "You said Potter's wand is broken," he said.

Hermione nodded, and retrieved something from the pocket of her cloak; Severus felt his heart drop when he saw the snapped wood, the bent Phoenix feather. _Fuck._

"I don't suppose you have a trustworthy wand maker lying about?" she said. Her smile was a feeble thing, her eyes worried.

Severus rubbed his forehead. "Unfortunately not," he said. Briefly, he considered going to Olivander, who, as far as he knew, was still captive in the bowels of Malfoy Mansion, but dismissed the idea as being far too risky. He looked at the wand again; it seemed likely it was beyond repair in any case. "I suppose you shall have to make do until we think of something else," he said. The idea of Potter traipsing about without a wand, doing whatever it was he and Hermione were doing, was ludicrous and terrifying, but he could think of no good solution. He looked at Hermione and forced his tone to be serious, businesslike, trying to keep his eyes from dropping to her lips. Whatever had just happened-there was not time for him to think about that, just yet.

"I need you to tell me what it is Dumbledore has you doing," he said.

Her eyes widened. "Are you certain?"

No, he wasn't. Not of anything, anymore. "Yes."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "And will you be telling me anything I might need to know, too?"

Severus felt his chest tighten, but kept his voice steady. "Of course."

"All right." She squared her shoulders, and he felt a stab of admiration. Gone was the frightened girl who had come to him for comfort; Hermione looked as calm and sensible as she ever had when she was his student. "We're searching for these, well, they're powerful objects that we need to destroy before Vol-um, He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named can die." She reached into her handbag and pulled something out, handing it to Severus, who nearly recoiled when the thing touched his palm, so redolent was it of Dark Magic. He peered closer. It was a locket, unremarkable in appearance but clearly sinister in some way that his magic could sense. He looked at Hermione and raised a questioning eyebrow.

"This is one of the objects," she said. "Professor Dumbledore destroyed another one, a ring of some sort-that's how he injured his hand-" Severus waved his own hand impatiently; he knew all about Dumbledore's idiotic hubris - "and Harry destroyed one back in Second Year: Tom Riddle's diary." She leaned forward. "There are others, we think there are six altogether. They're the secret to his immortality. There are bits of-"

"His soul," Severus whispered. He felt suddenly very cold, despite their proximity to the fire.

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "Well-yes," she said. "You know about…?"

"Horcruxes." Gods above. Abruptly, he could not sit still; Severus rose to his feet and began pacing before the fire. He glanced at her, feeling defensive. "And before you ask, I only know the theory. I have never attempted to create one myself."

"Of course you haven't!" she snapped, looking angry. Then she sighed. "Sorry. I just… of course you haven't."

Severus felt his neck and face grow hot. He coughed awkwardly. "You have had no luck finding the remaining objects, or destroying the locket?"

She shook her head. "We've tried everything on the locket, but nothing works. And we have no idea where to find the others. That's why we went to Godric's Hollow, though-we finally think we've figured out a way to destroy them." She lowered her voice. "It's the Sword of Gryffindor." Severus started, and she shook her head. "We found out about Neville and the rest of them trying to steal it from your office, but that's a fake. We thought maybe Dumbledore had hidden the real sword in Godric's Hollow, but-"

"No." Severus shook his head violently; Hermione looked at him, a question in her face.

"What-?" she began.

"Dumbledore did not hide the sword." Severus could feel fury rising within him, a hot wave of it that made him twitch with the urge to strike something. He clasped his hands behind his back, fingers clenched together. "He gave it to me-or rather, he told me to hide the original and create a copy, requiring that I bring the true sword to Mr. Potter when _he"_ -with a jerk of his head in the direction of his office- "so instructed." He looked into Hermione's startled expression and added, "He did not, however, see fit to inform me of the use to which you and Potter would be putting the sword."

There was a moment of silence, during which Severus watched Hermione's expression transform from startled to furious. "I-that _bastard!"_ she cried, and he felt something in his chest loosen. "I understand why he had to keep the sword out of Ministry hands, but to not trust you with the truth-"

"There's more," Severus said heavily. His nose felt as though it had been plugged with cotton wool, and he could scarcely look at her. "I… there is no easy way to say this. Before he died, Dumbledore told me… that is, there are actually seven Horcruxes. Did you-are you aware that a Horcrux can be created from a living vessel?"

She eyed him warily. "Yes, I am. We think the snake is one, actually."

Severus let out a breath, stunned by his own idiocy. Why had he never suspected? The fucking snake-the way the Dark Lord was able to communicate with her even when they were not in any sort of physical proximity to one another. "Ah," he said faintly.

"So there are-seven, then?" Hermione's voice sounded odd, pitched a touch too high. "What… what is the last, then?"

For an instant, Severus was sure he was going to sick up all over his boots, but what came out of his mouth instead was, "Potter."

* * *

Hermione felt as though she had been plunged into very cold water, and from very far away she could hear a voice-her voice, she realized-saying, over and over again, "No, that can't be right. That can't be right-"

But it was right. She knew it. Deep in her belly, she knew it. She just hadn't allowed herself to admit it.

It explained everything. Harry's connection to Voldemort's mind. His ability to talk to snakes. Possibly even the unusual strength of his magic.

Everything.

Severus' hands were on her shoulders, but Hermione shook them off. "You knew," she said, and her voice, so frantic only a moment before, sounded dead. "You knew, and you didn't tell me."

"How could I?" he demanded, drawing away from her when she turned her face toward his. "I was forbidden to speak of it. And I-"

"You were a coward," she spat, and for a moment she relished his obvious, visceral reaction to the word. She leapt to her feet and turned on him, tears running down her face. _"You should have told me!"_

Severus face was white. "I know," he said stiffly, and Hermione felt her anger dissipate at once.

"Oh, God," she gasped. "Oh, God-this means-this means Harry-" She reached for Severus desperately, her hand closing around his bony wrist. "Is there any way to remove a Horcrux from its host without destroying the host itself?" She didn't give him a chance to answer. "There must be," she said. "There must be!"

"I know of nothing," Severus said, and Hermione was drawn from her own grief by the genuine pain in his voice. "Of course, we can research, but-"

"Oh, _God,"_ Hermione said again. The walls of Severus' sitting room seemed to be pressing in against her. Her shoulders slumped and she released her grip on Severus. The room was silent but for her shaky breaths and the over-loud ticking of the mantle clock, reminding her that she really had to get back, and soon.

"I do know something of what you are feeling," Severus said quietly.

Hermione looked at him. His expression was bleak, hopeless, and she thought dully that he was telling the truth, as unlikely as it seemed. But he couldn't feel everything she was, for he didn't love Harry as she did. He didn't know Harry's sweetness, his wry humor, his strength, only his propensities for recklessness and thoughtlessness. She scrubbed at her cheeks. She had to stop crying.

"All this time," she whispered. "All this time, we've been fighting to keep him alive and he has to die, after all." She felt ill. "And Dumbledore knew?"

"Yes," Severus said. His voice was steel. "He knew. I'm not sure for how long, but he knew, and he knows what Potter-what Potter means to me, and yet he has tasked me with informing the boy of his fate."

Hermione's mouth fell open. "Was he mad?" she demanded. "Had Dumbledore completely lost it? Why would Harry listen to _you?"_ Then the implications of the rest of what he had said caught up with her, and she added tentatively, "What _does_ Harry mean to you? I always… well, we all rather thought you hated him."

Severus' lips tightened, and he looked away, but he surprised her by answering. "He is the son of the woman I… loved." He glanced at her, and Hermione felt her heartbeat trip, wondering whether his use of the past tense was intentional or a slip of the tongue. "A woman who was once my friend, and who I betrayed, and who died for that betrayal. I…" He passed one long-fingered hand over his eyes. "After I realized to whom the prophecy referred, I came to Dumbledore and begged him to protect Lily. And when his plans to do so failed, I returned to him in despair. He… allowed me to seek redemption, of a sort, by working for the Order." He shuddered, and his voice dropped lower, a bass rumble that Hermione could feel under her skin. "In return, he required my vow to keep Lily's son safe when he arrived at Hogwarts. I have always… _always_… striven to uphold that promise, and then-" He broke off, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides.

"I don't even know what to say," Hermione murmured. She felt exhausted, filled with a well of grief that she was certain she'd barely even begun to plumb. And the way Dumbledore had used his spy-it was sickening, truly sickening, and yet-as much as Hermione wished it, the former headmaster, however cold and calculating his orders seemed, was right. If they couldn't find another way, Harry would have to die, if the rest of the Wizarding World was to survive.

_I can't dwell on that now,_ Hermione thought. She had to focus on the other things that needed to be done, or she'd never be able to go on.

"We mustn't tell Harry until-unless-he absolutely needs to know," she said. She looked at Severus beseechingly. "We need to dispatch the rest of the Horcruxes anyway, right? He can be the last. It should buy us time."

Severus shook his head. "I have no wish for Potter to know any sooner than necessary," he said. He looked at her from the corners of his eyes. "You might call it cowardice, I suppose, but there it is."

"I shouldn't have said that," Hermione said softly. She reached out to him, but he made no move towards her and she allowed her hand to drop limply back to her side.

"It was the truth," he said, bitterness heavy in his voice. "I was unwilling to risk our…"-he twitched a shoulder- "… our friendship, by telling you I was meant to send the boy to his death."

Hermione's eyes-_Damn it_-filled with tears again, and she looked away. "Right," she said shakily. "So. We'll concentrate on the other Horcruxes. If you somehow think of a place for us to look, well… I guess we can't use the pendants for that. But we'll think of… something." She swallowed, then hurried to continue before hopelessness overcame her once more. "So-I'll need the sword. At least we can finally be rid of that dreadful locket."

Severus hesitated. "My understanding is that the sword must be taken under circumstances of great valor," he said finally, mouth twisted into a sneer. "I do not know that my handing it to you now would satisfy Gryffindor's sense of the dramatic. Likely, the thing would be as useless to you as any other sword."

Hermione's insides tightened. "But-"

"I shall think of something," he said. "And… I will find a way to deliver the sword to you and Potter." He tapped his mouth with the tip of one finger. "Perhaps Headmaster Black can be of assistance in this matter. If you could leave your bag open again, and name your location each time you move, he could report that location to me, allowing me to find you when the time comes."

Hermione blushed, thinking of the last time she had carelessly allowed the portrait to hear what was going on around it, but Severus, to her relief, seemed disinclined to bait her on the subject.

"That could work," she said.

He nodded. "In that case, you should return to Potter."

_No,_ she thought, irrationally. _No._ She couldn't just _leave._ Not like this. Not with so much still unresolved between them. And yet-she thought of Harry, asleep and ill and-and there was so much happening, how could she be so selfish as to delay returning, even if she wanted, more than anything in the world, to stay where she was?

"Yes," she said, and the word was audible, but only just. She had left Harry a note, in case the Dreamless Sleep wore off earlier than she expected, saying that she was looking for food and to be on the alert for her return, to let her back through their wards; and she had wrapped a hair elastic around the branch of a tree beside their tent, to ensure that she could find the right spot to wait for him to wake.

Severus glanced out the window, looking as though he were weighing something in his mind. "I shall bring you to the gates, then," he said, looking back at her. "Put on your cloak."

The walk to the gates was over before Hermione was ready. She followed a Disillusioned Severus closely, careful to keep Harry's cloak over herself completely, and when they reached the gates Severus tapped them with his wand to open them, giving a curt little nod in the direction of the lane beyond. Hermione paused; the air between them felt charged and strained, and she realized, with dismay, that she oughtn't even risk putting out a hand to touch him, on the slim chance that someone might be lurking nearby and see. All of a sudden, the desire to feel him with her fingertips was overwhelming, to be close enough to smell her Amortentia on his skin. She wanted to kiss him again. She looked at him through the Cloak's gossamer fabric, and couldn't tell from his face, held in its old, accustomed blank mask, whether he wanted to kiss her, too.

Drawing in a breath of freezing air, she moved past him, through the open gate. "Keep safe," she whispered, and turned to face him where he stood on the other side of the wrought iron, shivering slightly in his inadequate clothing.

She felt, more than heard, his murmured, "Farewell," the low-pitched timber of his voice sending a shudder of warmth across her limbs as she spun away into the night.

* * *

_ A/N: Thank you for all the lovely reviews! And another thank-you to Ivy Amelia for her edits! _


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